


Grounded

by WingFeathers



Series: Under the Shadow of Your Wings [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Bisexual Bruce Wayne, Bisexual Clark Kent, Bisexual Dick Grayson (though he is not fully aware of it yet), Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Continuity What Continuity, Developing Friendships, Dick Grayson Being a Dick, Dick Grayson Needs Friends, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Robin, Dick does not know what to do with the Midwest, Found Family, Friends to Lovers Subplot, Friendship, Gen, M/M, MA AND PA KENT ARE ALIVE thank you very much, Ma Kent is a Great Mom, Minor Clark Kent/Lois Lane, Mostly Gen, One-Sided Attraction, POV Dick Grayson, Pa Kent is the Best Dad, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-Crisis, Post-Crisis (DCU), Pre-Flashpoint (DCU), Secondary POV Clark Kent, Teen Titans do not yet exist, Tornadoes, UNCLE CLARK, Wally West is Kid Flash, he's just very much a teenager, possibly mutual but definitely oblivious, some Pre-Crisis stuff thrown in too though, with brief appearances by Lois and Alfred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-28 18:50:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15055505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingFeathers/pseuds/WingFeathers
Summary: In the early days of the Justice League, Bruce is out more and more frequently on League missions, and Dick (age 13) is growing more and more restless and lonely stuck at home.  His friends can't know he's Robin, and there are no superheroes Dick's age--or so he thinks, until Bruce receives a call from Barry, desperately seeking mentorship advice.  Dick asks to meet the Flash's new sidekick, but Bruce refuses; a fight ensues, ending in Dick getting grounded.  One week in Gotham off patrol, and then two weeks alone, far from Gotham... at a little family farm in Smallville, Kansas.And hey, if a certain Midwestern speedster sidekick just so happens to turn up, that'd be just fine. Or would it?





	1. Fighting Words

 

**SUNDAY, 6 DAYS BEFORE**

“Dick, are you even _listening_?” In a huff, Bruce dropped the salmon pages of the newspaper on the table. “I _said_ that the risk of investing in futures is that–”

“The high margins can sink you,” Dick provided, staring out at a squirrel hurrying up a tree trunk outside. “And you’re stuck with it, instead of having flexibility like you do with options. I’m _listening_. I just don’t _care_.”

“You _should_ care. Futures are an important aspect of the market to understand.”

Dick groaned. “Sorry, Bruce, but I have enough school in school. And this just all feels messed up. I don’t want to make money off people’s suffering.”

Bruce cast a dark look at Dick. “If you’re too good for the market, you can cut our costs by totaling fewer Batcycles.”

“I’m not _too good,_ ” Dick whined, and then contradicted himself spectacularly by adding: “I’m just not going to make some bets and then throw a party when some guy’s potatoes all rot, okay?”

“You aren’t _causing_ anything. You’re just guessing what the price will be.”

“Still.”

“If you’ve invested in the commodity, you can do something good with the profit,” Bruce argued. “You could even give it to the potato farmers who lost their crops.”

The logic seemed too clever. Dick didn’t trust it, but he didn’t have any arguments against it either.

“Fine,” he said, giving in. “It’s _totally_ not morally shady to bet on someone else’s bad luck. Can we go downstairs now? You can keep telling me about futures and options or whatever while we spar.”

Bruce didn’t make any moves to get up. Instead, he steepled his fingers and dropped his eyes down to the table, as if gathering his thoughts.

“Bruce? You okay?”

“Dick… you know I’m not going to be around forever.”

“Shut _up_ , Bruce.” He didn’t mean it to come out so harsh, but he _hated_ when Bruce hit moods like this. They were more common these days, ever since the Justice League had formed.

“This is important.” Bruce looked up, pinning him in that intense gaze of his. “I need to know that there’s someone I can trust with the company and the foundation.”

Dick’s eyes widened. _Not him._ His whole body and mind screamed with it. “Lucius!” he shouted. “ _Lucius_ is trustworthy.”

“Lucius won’t be around forever, either. I already updated my will. I just need—”

“No.” Dick stood up now. He would not be a part of this. He wouldn’t think about Bruce _dying_ and leaving him behind. “I don’t want your money.”

“It’s not about the _money_.” A hand gripped his shoulder and turned him back. “Wayne Enterprises should stay in the family.”

“I can’t,” he muttered. “That’s not me.”

Bruce’s fingers jumped away as if Dick’s flesh had caught fire. “What?”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t _want_ Wayne Enterprises,” he snapped. He was at a loss for words to explain it, and his confusion turned to frustration. Anger broiled up from his gut, and he grasped for anything, _anything,_ because Bruce wouldn’t let him go without an explanation. The words tumbled out before he thought them through: “I’m not a _Wayne_ , and I’m tired of you acting like I am.”

“I don’t think—”

“You _aren’t_ my dad!” Dick found himself shouting, quite out of nowhere. “And I’m not taking over your stupid company!” Dick spun on his heel and stormed away, anywhere but here. He had to cool off.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Bruce shouted behind him.

“The _Cave_ ,” Dick shouted back. He wasn’t even _angry_ , exactly. He wasn’t even sure he’d meant any of what he’d said. But he felt like he was going to explode.

“Richard John Grayson, get back here _right_ now!”

“ _Make_ me!”

He half-expected Bruce to do just that, but no footsteps followed him. He made it all the way to the training course without interruption. Somehow, that hurt more. Bruce _should have_ chased after him, figured out why he was angry—solved it like a mystery and then set it to rest. But now Dick was alone, and that only made him angrier.

He was _tired_ of being alone. Bruce was out more and more frequently with the Leaguers, and while he’d brought Dick along once or twice, Justice League missions were usually too dangerous for him to go. Really, they were too dangerous for _anyone_ without superpowers. But Bruce was special.

That thought normally brought pride to Dick’s heart, but instead he just hated it. Hated that Bruce went out on so many missions without him, fighting alongside Superman and then having the gall to _complain_ about it to Dick.

He threw his anger into warming up with on the practice dummies. He’d prefer real targets, some pieces of Gotham trash in need of a humiliating defeat, but patrol wouldn’t be for several hours yet. And patrol would be with Bruce. So he settled for the dummies. He practiced a few new kicks and then fell into landing punch after punch. One well-placed blow—after a number of small shifts in the thing’s structural integrity—sent the dummy’s head flying off, and Dick had to go chase it down as it rolled across the mats. He screwed back it on and went to kick it again, but his ankle met flesh, a good four inches short of his target.

“I know you aren’t a Wayne,” Bruce said, holding Dick’s ankle. He pushed it back, lightly enough for Dick to keep his balance, but with enough force that doing so took most of Dick’s focus. “You’re a Grayson. That’s even better, and I’d never expect you to be anything else.”

Dick scoffed. The line was practiced. Fake.

“I only meant…” Bruce cleared his throat. He was _trying._ Dick had to give him that. “I know I’m not your father, but you’re the closest I thing I have to a son.”

 _That_ was genuine enough. Here was Bruce in an unusual moment of warmth, and Dick was too caught up in the fire of his own stupid anger to even accept it. He hated himself for it.

“I know,” he choked out.

“And… updating my will doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen. I’m healthy. I’m safe as I can be. It’s just a precaution.”

“I _know_ ,” he said, this time with confidence. He landed a kick on the next practice dummy, farther from Bruce.

“But… You…” Bruce’s voice trailed off, but Dick could supply the rest that Bruce would never say aloud: _But you pitched a fit. You ran away to the cave. You hurt my feelings._

“I _know_ all that. I know you could die, any night we’re out there. I know that, better than anyone.” Dick spun back toward Bruce. “But if you think I’d just _let_ someone—”

“You can’t control everything,” Bruce said, in a well-rehearsed way that suggested he’d been trying to sell himself on the same line for years. And how well had that worked?

“I’m not in _denial_ , okay? I know what could happen. But anyone coming for you has to deal with me, too. And if somehow they get to you and not me, you think I wouldn’t fight back? You think I’d just sit around in the Manor waiting to read your will?”

“Dick, you—”

“I don’t want to be your legacy,” Dick said, rounding another kick into the dummy. “I don’t want to be in your will. I won’t.” He threw out another, but he was distracted, sloppy, and he overshot and shook his balance. “I won’t do it.”

Dick stopped trying to fight. His shoulders hung slack, deflated. The conversation had left him scooped out and hollow.

“It’s not just the company,” Bruce added. “ _Gotham_ would need you.”

 _That_ was too much to think about. A heaviness began closing around him, cutting off his air. He knew that feeling all too well. Fear. _It’s okay to be afraid_ , Bruce always said.

Dick didn’t feel _okay_.

“The _League_ would need you. This is why I—”

“ _Stop_ it, Bruce, _please_ ,” he begged, almost choking on the words. He looked up, eyes wide. “Please. I… I don’t want to talk about this anymore, okay?”

“Okay,” Bruce said, his voice low and small.

“I’ll learn whatever you want me to learn,” Dick continued, pleading, as if Bruce hadn’t responded. “But I’m your _partner_. I’m learning so I can fight _with_ you, not _after_ you. I don’t want to be left behind. Not again, I—”

“ _Dick._ ” Bruce took hold of his shoulders, stilling him. “I said _okay_.”

“Yeah?” Dick’s voice was quiet, fragile. He hated sounding like this. Like it was his last night at the circus, sitting in the bloody sawdust, his life broken into pieces.

“Yes.”

Dick’s gaze fell to the floor as his words swept back over him and guilt set in. “I’m sorry about what I said before.”

Bruce made a noise in the back of his throat, and, in a rare instance, Dick wasn’t sure how to translate.

“Are you—are you angry?”

“No,” said Bruce, though he sounded unsure. “It wasn’t a conversation you should need to have. I shouldn’t have pressed it.”

Dick shrugged, resigned to the reality of it. “It’s what you do. Make plans.”

Bruce cracked a smile at that. “I suppose it is.”

“You really trust me with your company and all of it, huh?”

Bruce nodded. “You have a good heart. And a sensible head, when you care to use it.”

“Thanks.” Dick grinned and turned awkwardly back to the dummy. He wasn’t angry, anymore, but restless energy danced down his arms and legs. He passed a playful kick around it, skirting its edges, and then swung into a cartwheeled kick in the other direction. “Though really,” he added, “you might want to get some other orphan who cares more about stocks.”

“I’m not just… _collecting_ orphans.”

Dick chuckled at the image of it: Bruce like some grumpy fairy-tale dragon, hoarding angry children instead of treasure. “Maybe you _should_.”

“Maybe _you_ should go back upstairs and study for your final exams.”

“Can’t. Gotta train.” Dick ran and sprung himself onto a low wall in the training course. “I hear Gotham _needs_ me, or something.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “I also said that—”

“Does this mean I can patrol longer with you next fall?”

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t help the _League_ if I’m turning in at ten.” He hit the timer and began the course, scrambling up the first wall.

“Don’t make me regret what I said,” Bruce called from below.

Dick laughed, reveling in the echo of it bouncing around the Batcave. “Too late, Brucester. Is that a yes? Ten-thirty?” He aimed for the next wall, a street-wide gap away, and launched himself toward it, rolling across the target landing.

“Let’s see how your grades come in.”

 

* * *

 

**WEDNESDAY, 3 DAYS BEFORE**

Dick waved goodbye to classmate after classmate as they got picked up from the end-of-year party, until only Jenny remained.

“Where’s Mister Wayne?” she asked, wringing her wet hair out in her cheerful yellow-and-pink striped beach towel. “My mom said I should thank him for hosting. This was really nice.”

“He’s at some business thing,” Dick said. It wasn’t a total lie, as long as you counted helping Superman save the world from an inter-dimensional trickster as business. “But I’ll pass it along. I’m, uh, glad you had fun.”

“I always have fun when you’re around. And you couldn’t leave early this time, because you were already home.”

Dick blushed, both from the compliment and the call-out. “Hey, um. I almost forgot, but I got you something. Hold on—don’t leave yet.”

He ran into the pool house, squelching wet flip-flops under his feet, and found the pale blue box he’d stashed away for the occasion. When he got back outside, Jenny was dressed and packed, ready to go, with her parents waiting at the gate and talking with Alfred.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Dick said. “Here. A thank you, for helping me study for finals. I think I actually did well—totally thanks you to.”

Jenny took the box and gave him a quizzical look. “What if you bombed? Not that you did, but… maybe you should wait for grades to come home before you thank me.”

“Well, then let’s say it’s a thank you for putting up with the flakiest boyfriend in Bristol.”

She smiled and tugged the white bow, opened the box, and pulled out a delicate chain with a pendant in a cursive letter _j_. “Wow, thank you, Dick,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

“Like you.”

It was Jenny’s turn to blush. She glanced over at her parents and then pressed a quick kiss on Dick’s cheek.

“You’re coming on Saturday, right? To the carnival?” Jenny smiled, but there was little joy in it. Probably because she anticipated his answer.

“Shoot, _Saturday_.” Dick bit his lip. Bruce was expecting a major opiate hand-off to happen on Saturday night, and he’d promised Dick he could come as a reward for cooperating with the stupid stock portfolio project that Bruce was making him work on all summer. “Um, yeah. I’ll definitely be there—but I might have to leave early—”

“For work, yeah, I know.” She clutched her books to her chest and looked down at them. “It’s cool. Honestly, between school your job, volunteering, and all the stuff you must have to do with Mister Wayne… I’m surprised you have any free time at all.”

“Yeah,” Dick agreed. “But I’ll always make time for you.”

It was a statement more romantic than truthful, and they both knew it. Jenny’s face fell, and Dick reached out for her hand.

“It’s okay, Dick. You have lots of priorities. As long as you’re still going to Matt’s bar mitzvah next weekend. I’m _not_ going alone.”

“Absolutely. Cross my heart. I’ll tell work and Bruce and everyone, no plans that day, no can do. I’ve got a date. Anyway, I think Matt is Bruce’s third cousin or something on the Kane side, so I’m probably under some obligation to go anyway.”

Jenny laughed. “And try to not get another black eye right before, okay? I know you’re like, the biggest daredevil in Bristol, but I want a good picture with you.”

Dick reached up and touched his bruised eye. It was not, as Jenny thought, from trying to jump over a chihuahua with a skateboard and landing into a stair railing, unless the skateboard in question was a Batcycle, and the chihuahua was a canal, and the stair railing was an extendable boxing glove wielded by an insane clown. “Yeah, I guess I can manage that. Though Bruce said he’d finally start teaching me how to ride a motorcycle this summer—”

“Oh my _God_ , Dick, _please_ don’t. You’ll break your leg and not be able to dance, and then you’ll feel like a real jerk.”

Dick laughed. “Yeah, I guess I would. No motorcycle lessons, then.”

“ _Thank_ you.”

“At least not until after the bar mitzvah.”

Jenny shook her head in exasperation. “I’m pretty sure you’re still way too young for driving motorcycles. Don’t you have to be like fifteen?”

“We wouldn’t leave the _property_ ,” Dick explained.

“ _Oh_ , okay, then.” Jenny laughed again. “I’m sorry, Dick. I shouldn’t nag…”

“I don’t think asking me to not blow you off or not get seriously injured is nagging.” Dick flashed a grin. “Honestly, I’d be more worried if you _didn’t_ care about either of those things.”

“If you say so,” she said, half-hearted again. “I should get going… Thanks again for the necklace, though. It really is lovely. I hope you did ace everything.”

“You’re welcome. And I’ll see you Saturday,” Dick confirmed. “For sure.”

 

* * *

 

**SATURDAY**

“How was that?” Clark asked. He’d been practicing his act for a good twenty minutes now, and he was starting to get anxious. Time was wasting. There was so much to do. But then, Bruce had asked for his help. So he’d come, against all better judgment.

“Your stance needs work.”

Clark narrowed his eyes under the cowl. “I _can_ just say no to all of this.”

Bruce scoffed in disbelief.

“You need to be grounded,” Bruce continued, “but able to move in a second.”

“I’m _always_ able to move in a second.”

“You need to _look_ it,” Bruce barked.

“All right, all right.” Clark eyed Bruce’s stance and imitated it, a perfect copy. “Better?”

Bruce didn’t voice any objections, so Clark took that as a _yes_.

“See? All that time in drama club paid off.”

“Try again.”

Clark sprang into action, lifting Bruce by the neck, just high enough that his toes brushed the ground, and then put on his best Batman-face, so close to Bruce’s that the subtle of expensive aftershave nearly overpowered him.

“Talk,” he growled, low and cold.

The briefest, most subtle whiff of shock passed over Bruce’s face, but then he shook his head. “No. Never give someone height over you,” he corrected.

“Fine.” Clark tossed him to the ground—more like _lightly dropped_ , but still hard enough that Bruce had to roll to break his landing, huffing out a near silent “ _ow_ ”. Clark pretended not to hear it. No need to embarrass him.

The sound of footsteps caught Clark’s attention, quick pattering on the stairway. “Dick’s here,” he said, breaking character and reaching out a hand to the fallen Batman.

Bruce ignored the outstretched hand and stood up on his own, rolling his shoulders out from the fall. “That _was_ better,” he noted.

“It’s not like anyone’s going to be analyzing my every move,” Clark noted.

“Someone could. And if Joker escapes…”

“Jeez, Bruce. The Joker’s not escaping. And I already promised you: if he does, I’ll fly across the world and bring you home myself.”

“Hey B!” Dick’s voice carried through the cave as he sprinted forward, paper in hand. “You gotta see what I—”

Dick’s voice fell silent, and Clark turned to see him looking between the two Batmen in total confusion.

“Uh, B?” He scanned each of them. It didn’t take long for his flickering eyes to fix on the true Batman. “What’s with the doppelgänger?”

“You tell me.”

Dick looked back at Clark, surely judging his build, his jawline, his _stance_. “Um… Un…cle Clark?”

“ _Clark_?” Clark repeated, in his best Batman voice. “No, I am _vengeance_.” He swept forward, and Dick bit back a smile. He raised his arms, readying a tackle, and Dick began to bubble into laughter. “I am the _night_! I am… _Batman!_ ”

Clark jumped forward, tackling Dick in a huge hug while rising into the air. The papers from Dick’s hand floated to the ground, while Dick’s laughter turned into a exuberant _whoop_.

“Are you gonna be Batman while Bruce is gone?”

Bruce crossed his arms on the ground. “Only as much as is absolutely necessary.”

“Just an hour here and there,” Clark explained in his natural voice, landing on the Cave floor next to Bruce. “Make sure the bad guys don’t think they have the run of the city. Ready?”

“Ready,” Dick confirmed. Clark tossed him forward, with just enough of a boost to let Dick flip gracefully to the ground, and then set himself on the Cave floor next to Bruce.

“Only an hour or two?” Dick whined. “But you could come the whole time!”

“No, he can’t,” Bruce said. “The longer he’s here, the more likely someone is to notice he’s not me.”

Clark pulled off the cowl and let the cold damp underground air wash over him. How Bruce could do anything while wearing that was the greatest wonder of all.

“I also have a _job_ ,” he noted.

“Right. He has a job.”

Dick nodded, but he scuffed the ground with his shoes. “Okay, I guess. But I can patrol with you, right?”

Clark grimaced. He hated to disappoint Dick—really, he hated disappointing anyone, but the gap between Dick’s joy and chagrin. “I’d love that, Dickie, but, uh…”

“He’s trying to be nice,” Bruce jumped in, “but he means that he doesn’t need help.”

Clark shot Bruce the a nastiest look he could muster. “That’s not it,” he assured. “I just may need to come and go quickly, and—”

“It’s cool,” said Dick. “I get it. I’d just slow you down.”

“Tell you what,” said Clark, fake-punching Dick’s forearm. “Before I go out, you can give me the run-down. Let me know what trouble to expect.”

That brought a smile to Dick’s face. “Okay! You _sure_ you don’t want to stay here like, a few nights? It’s gonna be _so boring_ with Bruce gone. _Two whole weeks!_ ”

“Alfred will be here,” Bruce reminded the boy.

Dick rolled his eyes. “ _Alfred_ doesn’t spend four hours a night training me. What am I gonna _dooo_?”

“Don’t fall for his act, Clark. He’ll be fine.” Bruce ruffled the boy’s hair. “Dick, you wanted to show me something?”

“Oh yeah!” Dick pushed himself away and ran to the papers that had fallen. “Report card came. Look! All A’s!” He shoved them into Bruce’s hand, beaming.

“That’s a real turn-around,” Bruce noted.

“Nice job!” Clark chimed in.

“Thanks! So-ooo, Bru-uce… later curfew? You _promised_ …”

Bruce looked up from the papers with a smile. “All right. Ten-thirty next year.”

Dick’s exuberant “ _Yes_!” was drowned out by the sound of a call ringing on the Bat-Computer. A call for Batman.

Bruce answered it on a private handset. Clark tried, tried _so hard_ not to listen, but he couldn’t help but make out Flash’s voice on the other end. Bruce’s extra-disgruntled expression confirmed it. Clark shifted the focus of his hearing away so as to not intrude on Bruce’s privacy. Flash had called Batman, not Superman.

“What?” Pause. “Not now.” A long pause. “No, I can’t. I—Yes, I do.” A heavy silence. “Christ. How did—” Pause. “Hrnn.”

“What is it?” Dick whispered. Bruce waved an irritated hand and walked away from them.

Clark tried very _, very_ hand. But Flash raised his voice and Clark couldn’t block out the sound: “How am I supposed to deal with a _kid_?”

Okay. Now his interest was piqued.

“We can run tests to see—”

“That’s not what I meant! He looks up to me. Too much, honestly. I don’t know how to manage that. Say, maybe you and Robin can—”

“Absolutely not,” Bruce clipped.

Clark shook off his journalist’s curiosity. It was a private call, and he had no business hearing Barry’s anxieties. Not to mention that it made him a little jealous. He’d never have that, would he? There were no junior Kryptonians in need of training. Best not to dwell on that, though.

“Hey, Dickie,” he whispered. “Any new moves you wanna show me?”

Dick nodded enthusiastically, but he looked back at Bruce, hesitating a moment. He had the same curiosity as Clark but no means to follow through, so he gave up and began to run, leading them back toward the practice mats where Clark had been trying out his Batman routine.

“Hit me,” Dick dared, fixing a belt with a grapple gun to his waist.

“No way.” Clark folded his arms. “Even a small blow could give you a concussion. I won’t—”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Dick whined, bending his knees for added flair. “It’s not like you’ll _actually_ hit me.”

“I won’t? You have super-speed now?”

Dick laughed. “Just go at _normal_ speed. Or like, a _little_ fast. Not Flash-fast or whatever.”

“Okay.” Clark raised a fist, but blinked down at the gangly teen and dropped it, looking down at the gangly teen. “No, Dick, I can’t. I could hurt—”

“You gotta or I can’t show you. _Do it_.”

Clark sighed and obeyed. He pulled the punch, but by the time he was within inches of Dick’s chest, Dick had grabbed his arm and flipped himself to a hand-stand. Clark watched, millisecond by millisecond, as Dick balanced with perfect poise and then swung his feet down, one and the other, right toward Clark’s face. Clark turned his head to let the kicks land on his cheek and eased in on the impact. No one wanted broken ankles. But Dick hardly needed it: he wasn’t kicking at all, but running _up_ Clark’s face to gain momentum for a final flip.

“ _Zhinck_!” he shouted, launching a line mid-air. It zoomed with a quiet _zhinck_ of its own toward Clark’s ankles and wrapped round and round, while Dick landed in a crouching position far out of Clark’s reach.

“See, now you’ll fall on your face if you try to get me, or I can retract the line and land _you_ flat on your back and Batman can jump down on you.”

“Impressive.”

Dick shrugged off the compliment and released the line. “Nah. You went easy on me.”

“Did not.”

“Did _too_ ,” he said, tossing the belt and grapple gun to the side. “Rogues won’t, though. I have to be prepared if I’m going to succeed.”

Clark bit back a grimace. Every time he visited, Dick seemed to have taken on a bit more of Bruce’s outlook on life. It wasn’t bad, _necessarily_. He just hoped it wouldn’t some day completely suffocate the boyish gleam in Dick’s eye.

“Uh huh,” he said, uncoiling the line from his ankles. Could he have ripped it? Sure. But Ma had always said _waste not, want not_ , and somehow the obscene amount of wealth that surrounded him didn’t dissuade him from following the old precept. “So. Preparation: what would you do about _Flash_ fast?”

Dick shrugged and stepped into a handstand. “Compromise the speedster’s friction and hope I don’t die.”

“Well, _that_ sounds foolproof. Is there a Plan B?”

“Let Batman deal with them?” Dick gave a wide upside-down grin.

Clark waggled his head. “Now, _that’s_ actually pretty foolproof.”

“It is,” came Batman’s voice, right behind them. “Dick knows better than to engage a speedster on his own.”

“Speaking of…” Clark turned around. “How’s our mutual friend?”

Bruce’s face had gone hard, angry. “You _listened_ to my call?”

“No! I only heard his voice.” He felt his whole heart tighten at the lie. But Bruce would be _more_ angry if he said what he’d heard in front of Dick. “And, uh, _some_ of his… his question,” Clark confessed. “But I wasn’t trying.”

If their positions were reversed, Bruce absolutely would have listened in. Not that it made it right, but Bruce didn’t really have any business giving such an accusatory glare.

Dick righted himself and cocked his head. “The _Flash_ called? _Why_? _What_ question? Why _you_?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “He’s babysitting his nephew and wanted advice.”

Dick perked to total attention now. “Nephew?”

“Not your age.”

“How old?”

“Three,” Bruce answered, not missing a beat.

Dick scrunched his face in thought, and then folded his arms and jut out his chin. “You’re _lying_.”

“Why would I lie about—”

“He’s _my_ age, or near it,” Dick guessed. “But he has powers. So you’re trying to keep it secret from me.”

Bruce’s face twitched, clearly torn between wanting to hold to his cover and wanting to congratulate Dick on his inference skills.

“What gave it away?” Bruce said, giving in.

“You sounded worried, on the phone. And you mentioned _tests_ ,” Dick noted. “So he’s a meta.”

“A toddler can have the metagene.”

“Bruce.” Dick placed a condescending hand on Bruce’s shoulder and looked up with astounding disbelief. “Who would call _you_ about babysitting a _toddler_? You’ve only dealt with me, so it figures that this Flash Kid is near my age.”

A satisfied smile stretched across Bruce’s lips, like this was a game between them and he’d just won a point. “Valid reasoning, but faulty premise: the Flash doesn’t know how old you were when you moved in.”

“Shoot.” Dick scrunched his nose and looked down in disappointment. “But wait, no.” His head popped back up and he tapped Bruce’s chest accusingly. “You were _too_ fast to shoot down him being my age. And—and if the Flash doesn’t know _when_ I came, that means he’d have no way to assume I was here as a toddler. He’d probably only call you if he was _sure_ it made sense, because, well. You’re terrifying. Plus. You? A toddler? _Really_?”

Clark couldn’t help but laugh, but there was a sad truth behind the fact that Bruce _hadn’t_ trusted the League with the basic facts of Batman’s life. Who he was. Why he did it. How Robin came to be. Clark was lucky to know the few little pieces that he did. Other than him, only Diana that knew the half of it. And she had a natural talent for getting people to open up to the truth, not to mention a divine tool for eliciting it.

“So… a teenage meta. Is he a speedster? Can I meet him?”

“Not yet,” said Bruce.

“But Bru-uce,” Dick whined, “there’s _finally_ someone my age that I can talk to about hero stuff, and you won’t even let me _meet_ him!”

Bruce scowled. “I never said this life was easy. You’ll meet him when I say it’s safe to. And you will _not_ under _any_ circumstances try to get Clark to go around my back while I’m gone.” Bruce’s icy glare fell on Clark now. “Am I _clear_?”

“Crystal,” said Clark.

Dick didn’t seem convinced. His voice pitched higher and higher, sharpening more and more: “You have _no idea_ what it’s like to not have _any_ friends that you don’t have to _lie_ to! You don’t _understand_!”

“This isn’t the time for this,” Bruce warned, flashing his eyes in Clark’s direction.

“It’s _NEVER_ the time!” Okay, now he was yelling. Clark was quickly getting out of his depth. Less cute kiddo, more nascent teenage rebellion. No wonder Barry had asked for help. “This is _SO. UN. FAIR_!”

Clark took a step back. If only his powers had come with invisibility… “Um, I should, uh—“

“No,” Bruce snapped. “You stay.” He took a deep breath and spoke measured words through gritted teeth: “Dick, you will _apologize_ to Clark for throwing this fit, and then you will go to your room until I come up and we can discuss this privately and civilly, unless you want to be grounded for the weekend.”

Dick’s expression softened ever-so-slightly as he regarded Clark.

“I’m sorry, Clark,” he muttered, his words sincere but clipped. His attention went back to Bruce, and he added, “Sorry that Bruce is a _total jerk.”_


	2. The Sentence

  **SATURDAY**

 

_“I’m sorry, Clark. Sorry that Bruce is a total jerk.”_

 

Bruce’s temper snapped from volatile to explosive. “That’s _enough_ , Dick! You’re grounded—starting _immediately_!”

Dick flailed his arms wildly, as if needing to match Bruce’s dramatics. “What’s the _difference_?” he spat. “Can’t hang out with the Flash Kid, can’t hang out with—”

“ _Robin’s_ grounded,” Bruce growled. “Until I get back.”

That did it. Dick switched from anger to desperation. He practically threw himself at Bruce, grabbing his arm like a much younger child. “No! I’m supposed to watch Gotham while you’re gone! You _can’t_!”

“I _can_.”

Dick’s face contorted in frustration, readying some kind of retort, but then he spun around and stormed away.

Bruce watched him go with a fixed stare, not relaxing until Dick had slammed the door that led back into the house. As soon as the light from upstairs went black, Bruce collapsed his shoulders and sighed.

“Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s…” Clark shuffled awkwardly. “It’s okay.”

“This Flash boy _is_ an unknown quantity,” Bruce said, as if requiring justification. “We don’t know the extent of his powers. How long they’ll last. Side effects. His health. I don’t—”

“You don’t want Robin getting attached,” Clark supplied. It wasn’t hard to see where Bruce, of all people, was coming from.

Bruce tightened his lips.

“You could’ve told _him_ that.”

“I might’ve, if he hadn’t started throwing a tantrum.” Bruce pressed a palm across his forehead and looked up with eyes wide in uncharacteristic doubt. Seeing Bruce vulnerable was not unlike encountering a undiscovered three-eyed creature: it was an honor and a privilege to behold a rare sight, but an unsettling one. “I don’t know how to teach Barry to mentor a teenager—I clearly have no idea what I’m doing. I’m hardly an adult myself, and Dick’s been blowing up at me once a week. Hell, he probably hates me now.”

Clark folded his arms. “Baloney,” he said. “Dickie doesn’t hate you. He’s thirteen. We all had those moments.”

“ _I_ didn’t.”

Clark sincerely doubted that Alfred would corroborate that, but he let it go this time. Bruce seemed _genuinely_ bothered.

Bruce’s face slid back into thought, into planning. That was more like it. “What did _your_ parents do?”

Ah. _That_ was it. It wasn’t that Bruce never had teenage attitude. It was that Bruce never had parents _managing_ a teenage attitude.

Clark thought back to spring nights being grounded in his room, the sound of sweet wind blowing through the growing wheat and into his window. He remembered the glow of the sun dancing on his neck and arms as he chopped wood—it had taken _so long_ before his powers had come in. And then the arguments, the explanations, the long chats with Pa and Ma about the trickiness of figuring out how to do the right thing. “There wasn’t just one thing,” he said. “They had a whole toolbox of solutions.”

“A toolbox.”

“Yeah. A utility belt, if you’d prefer.”

“Hn.” Bruce folded his hands in front of his jaw, almost concealing the hint of a smile that peeked out, though the hints of wrinkles around his pale eyes showed his amusement. “And what was their Batarang?”

Clark laughed. “Extra chores. Productive for the farm, and they got me out of the way and taught me some humility. And there’s nothing like digging a well or hauling wood to help blow off the steam—the fresh air, the mundanity of it, a bit of sun. Humans need sunlight too, you know.”

“Dick’s Vitamin D levels are fine,” Bruce clipped. “I keep track.”

“Course you do.”

“I’ve tried chores. Dick finds them _fun_.”

“ _Course_ he does.”

“What was the biggest tool in the box?”

Clark turned, leaning against the console to better face Bruce. “The Kryptonite?”

Bruce answered with the slightest of nods. “ _Your_ metaphor.”

“Only two times that grounding wasn’t enough to hold me. They made me go work on the Potters’ farm next door.”

“No powers in front of others,” Bruce analyzed. “And you weren’t going to go easy on someone else’s farm or be rude to your neighbors.”

Clark crossed his arms. Was he _that_ easily manipulated? Yes, apparently he was. “Exactly.”

“Hmm.” Bruce steepled his fingers and looked ahead, gaze fixed on the flashing images of the computer screens. Moments like this, he looked twenty-eight going on fifty. But Bruce’s personal sense of responsibility wasn’t something Clark could punch away. It wasn’t even something he could fix. Unless…

“Say,” Clark started, “what if—”

“No, I won’t burden—”

“It’d be a help, not a burden. It’s harvest any day now.”

“He doesn’t know the first thing about harvesting.”

Clark waved a hand. “He’s a quick study. Half of it is just helping pass the time. He _is_ good at that. And they’ve been dying to meet him.”

“I guess it would be good for him to get out of Gotham.”

“Keep him from being Robin while you’re gone, you mean.”

A smirk tugged at Bruce’s lips. “Added benefit. And Alfred _does_ deserve a weekend off.”

“Yeah? They’ll be thrilled, Bruce. _Thrilled._ Dickie will be, too.”

“Hh,” Bruce huffed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

 

* * *

 

Dick paced back and forth in his room as the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Jenny? It’s Dick.” He bit his lip, dreading what he was going to have to say.

“Yeah, the caller ID sort of said. What time are you getting to there tonight? Mom wants to know if we’re eating there, or—”

“Well, that’s the thing…”

“Dick, no.” Her voice fell, more sullen than he’d really ever heard. “Seriously?”

“I… I might be grounded.”

“ _Might_ be?”

“I’m working on it. I’ll try to get out of it, but I just want you to know to uh, don’t wait up.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know yet. I—” A knock on the door interrupted his answer. “That’s probably Bruce, now. I gotta go.”

He clicked the phone off and dragged himself over to the door. He’d hoped for Clark to show up, to hover outside his window and say goodbye. To give Dick a chance to apologize. But Clark had probably been called away. Some emergency, somewhere, anyway. A job for Superman.

“Hello,” said Bruce, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “Are you able to have a mature conversation now?”

Dick gave a wistful look back at the window and then stepped back to let Bruce in. “I don’t know, Bruce. Are you gonna treat me like some little kid?”

“I’ve never treated you like a little kid.”

Dick rolled his eyes and leaned back on his bureau, crossing his arms. “ _O_ -kay. Sure.”

“Your behavior in the Cave… Do you have _anything_ to say for yourself?”

He was supposed to apologize. This was his opportunity. And he had been ready to, with Clark, hadn’t he? But now, he wasn’t so inclined.

“Do _you_?” he asked.

Bruce’s brows pulled into a deep V. “I am _trying_ to treat you like an adult, but if you aren’t going to act like one—”

“You grounded _Robin_ ,” Dick spat. “But Robin’s not your _kid_. Robin’s your _partner_. And being Robin’s the only thing that matters to me. You know why I tried so hard to pull off those grades? So I could _prove_ that patrol wasn’t hurting my schoolwork. And you go and take me off the streets altogether?”

“For one _week_. To cool your heels.”

“One week. And then I’ll be off patrol for the two weeks that you’re gone, too,” he said. He left out how much he had been looking forward to taking on the city solo, to show Bruce how far he’d come in their two years together. But Bruce had called in Superman, and Dick would just get in his way. “That’s almost a month!”

“A month off patrol won’t hurt you.”

“Oh yeah?” Dick knew he should lose the attitude, but every word of Bruce’s just fed right back into it. It was like trying to put out a fire with someone dumping gasoline everywhere. Someone being Bruce. “How would _you_ do with a month off?”

Bruce’s jaw twitched. “That’s not the same.”

Dick’s face contorted in bewilderment.

“ _How_?” He unfolded his arms, holding his hands out wide. “ _How_ is that not the same? Because Batman’s necessary, but Robin’s… what? A _bonus_ that we can do without?”

Bruce opened his mouth, but only silence followed.

A dry, voiceless laugh huffed from Dick’s chest. He’d expected at least an attempt to fight the charge. Bruce _did_ think Robin was expendable, apparently. Never mind how much Dick had taught Bruce. Never mind all the times when he’d saved his life. And Bruce had no answer.

“ _Wow_. Okay,” he said, his voice cracking. He clenched his jaw and swallowed back the threatening wave of emotion. “So all that _Gotham needs you_ stuff was grade-A baloney. At least I know what you _really_ think.”

“I—” Bruce’s words caught. Dick had hit low. “I don’t think that. Not at all.”

Too little. Too late. Dick shook his head and looked away, following the grain of the wood on the bureau drawer instead of meeting Bruce’s eye. “It would be one thing if I’d messed up _as Robin_ , you know? But just for being _rude_?”

Bruce furrowed his brow. “This isn’t about _rudeness_. It’s about character.”

“ _Bullshit_.” The word rang out in defiance, of Bruce’s claim, of Bruce’s authority, of Bruce’s rules about polite language. Dick’s heart raced. He should stop digging himself in deeper. He knew that. But every time Bruce pushed, he wanted to push back even harder.

“I can still add another week to your punishment,” Bruce warned.

Dick shrugged. “Don’t make rules you can’t enforce, Bruce.”

That set Bruce’s teeth on edge—just as Dick imagined, since Bruce had ranted on about that very concept only three nights back.

The silence between them thickened, and then Bruce shook his head. “You think you’ll sneak out to patrol while I’m gone,” he assessed. Accurately. “That’s why you won’t be in Gotham.”

“ _What_?”

“You heard me.”

“But Gotham—”

“I’ve called Black Canary. She’ll keep her eyes on the ground, and Clark will be a failsafe.”

“I don’t even get to help from the Cave? But Bruce—”

“If I could trust you to _stay_ in the Cave, we’d be having a different conversation. But as you said, I’m not making rules or issuing punishments I can’t enforce.”

There was no way Bruce was _really_ doing this. Taking him away from Robin for three weeks, sending him out of Gotham… Dick stepped back until his calves hit the edge of his bed. What had he done to deserve this? “I’m sorry,” he tried. “I’m sorry about how I acted. I was just so _mad_. But that isn’t how I should deal with being angry. I know that. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

Dick looked up, the glimpse of hope tugging at him. But no. That _couldn’t_ be all it took.

“You’re still grounded,” Bruce added, confirming Dick’s doubt. “So you should start calling your friends and let them know you’ll have to cancel plans. Nothing this week, and then you’ll be out of town the next two.”

“But Matt’s bar mitzvah—”

“You’ll send a card and cash and your regrets.”

Dick scrunched his face. He didn’t care about getting stupid Matt a present so much as missing the social event of the summer _and_ the chance to slow-dance with Jenny—who would, most likely, finally dump him.

“Bruce, I can’t miss it. I’ve blown off Jenny for Robin stuff so much, and this is kind of my last chance—”

“You chose to be Robin, Dick.” Bruce’s face was stern, unyielding. “This life isn’t easy. I told you that when you asked to join me. If you want to quit—”

“I’m not quitting.” Dick held back from shouting that this would all be a lot easier if Bruce would let him meet sidekicks like the new speedster or Green Arrow’s kid. “Where am I going, though? When you’re gone, if I’m not staying in Gotham…”

“Somewhere safe, where you’ll be kept plenty busy.”

“Busy how?”

“A farm.”

“A farm? Like, Old MacDonald had a farm.”

Bruce nodded.

Dick took a deep breath. A farm. He could survive that. Manual labor. The outdoors. Maybe he could imagine he was back at the circus. At the same time, it was a real twist of cruelty that only Bruce could think of, to forbid him from seeing the Kents’ farm for two solid years and now to send him to some kind of _punishment_ farm. “Not near here, is it?”

“Not at all. Alfred will fly you out there after I leave. I’m giving him the time off, but you can call him if there’s an emergency and you can’t reach me.”

Dick gritted his teeth, resigned to his fate. “But _why_ —”

“You should be able to figure that out.”

Dick made no effort to hide his rolling eyes. “Will you at least tell me what state I’ll be in?”

“You’ll find out when you get there Friday. Until then, you can practice some patience.”

 

* * *

 

**FRIDAY EVENING**

 

“Welcome to Kansas,” said Alfred.

 _Kansas_. Bruce had really outdone himself this time. Wayne Manor wasn’t going to be boring enough, so he’d sent Dick to the literal middle of the country, as far from anything interesting as he could. Then again, Clark had grown up in Kansas, so that had to count for something. And Kansas was near Central City, home of the Flash. Not that he was in Central City. And there was no way Bruce would send him to _Smallville_ of all places as a punishment.

But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It couldn’t be as bad as the past week, waiting around in Wayne Manor but completely barred from seeing friends or working as Robin. Bruce had let him train in the Cave, but that was it. He hated waiting while Bruce went out, and even more, he hated watching Bruce come home from the city, whether triumphant or frustrated, healthy or bleeding. There was something to be said for out of sight, out of mind. Maybe Kansas would mean a blank slate. A new kind of life.

But then the plane door opened onto at a small, private airport surrounded by nothing but fields. Fields upon fields. There wasn’t even a real airport at the landing. Just a tarmac and a trailer in the distance. Kansas meant a vast nothingness, apparently.

“Now, Master Dick, I'll be away until Friday, but you call directly if you need anything,” Alfred said, carrying Dick’s bag down the steps.

“I will, Alfred.”

“And be good for your hosts.”

“I will.”

“And don’t—”

“ _Alfred_ ,” Dick said. “I’ll be fine. I’m in _Kansas_.”

Alfred hesitated, and then pulled Dick into a hug. “I know, lad. But I’ll still feel better when you’re home.”

After returning the hug, Dick wiggled out of Alfred’s grasp and took his bag. “Where do I go now?”

Alfred pointed down to a dinged brown pick-up that was waiting across the tarmac. Leaning against its hood was a man sporting a John Deere hat. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his plaid shirt, which nearly matched the brown of the car, to reveal arms that had seen their share of sun and hard work. He waved over at Dick and smiled, looking like he’d stepped right out of an illustration of middle America.

Dick slung his duffel over his shoulder and approached his ride.

“You must be Dick.”

“Yes, sir.” Dick held out a hand and the farmer wrapped it in his own calloused grip. It felt right, _real_ , like the hands of the circus people he’d grown up with, not the manicured silkiness of the hands he shook at Wayne Foundation events.

“Name’s Jonathan,” the man said. “Good to meetcha, Dick.”

Jonathan opened the passenger door and nodded to it. Dick clambered up and in, sliding onto the bench seat, while Jonathan went around to the driver’s side.

 

“Hope you got an appetite?”

Dick nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, good. The boss lady’s cooking us up something special.”

“Oh, wow. Thanks.” Dick scrounged up the clasp for the seatbelt and buckled in. “Boss lady?”

“My wife. She runs all the books for the farm.” Jonathan started up the engine, which sputtered and growled. The sound startled Dick at first. He’d grown far too used to Bruce’s luxury cars, which always sounded more than happy to get rolling. This one sounded like it might keel over and die before they got home. “Her name’s Martha.”

“Oh! My, um.” Dick bit his lip. His relationship to the Waynes was too complicated to go through, and it hit him that he hadn’t been briefed on these people at all. What did they know about him? “My grandmother’s name’s Martha, too.”

“Well, _I’ll_ be. She a nice lady, your grandma?”

He really hadn’t thought that one through. He had no idea what Martha Wayne was like. “Um. She was, yeah. I never met her, though. She died young.”

“Oh.” Jonathan squinted at the road ahead. “Sorry to hear it, son. Clark never got to meet his grandparents, either, you know. But then, I was no spring chicken by the time he came around.”

Dick had stopped listening after _Clark_. Clark. Jonathan. Martha. His looked at the window at the wheat-fields blowing by and kicked himself for not seeing it sooner. “Clark—Clark Kent?”

He turned back to Jonathan, whose smile slanted in amusement.

Embarrassment at not figuring that out swirled with excitement that he would be staying with Ma and Pa Kent. Excitement won out, and he pushed himself up on the seat. “So then… You’re Jonathan _Kent_? You’re _Pa_?”

Jonathan laughed, a real belly laugh. “I’m _Clark’s_ Pa, at least. What, am I famous?”

“Um, Uncle Clark talks about you _all the time_.”

That brought a smile to Pa’s face. “You call him Uncle Clark?”

Dick bit his lip. Was that weird? That was weird, probably. He wasn’t actually related to Clark or to the Kents. “Um, it’s just a, uh, an inside joke, I guess. Because he and Bruce are—I mean—I didn’t mean to offend—”

“Not offended,” Pa Kent said. “I meant more—he said he met you and Bruce as Superman, that you know his secret. So I thought you might call him that. Or Kal.”

“Yeah, when he’s in costume, but…” Dick shrugged. “Bruce says Clark’s his _real_ name.”

Pa Kent smiled wider, a satisfied and proud smile. “That was his Ma’s name, you know. Martha Clark, best girl in all of Kansas.”

“How’d you meet?”

“Well, that’s a long story," said Pa Kent as the truck jangled into a higher gear on the highway. 

 

Dick folded his legs under his knees and leaned back on the truck’s door. “Well, that's good.  I've got a whole lot of time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And HERE WE GO! Writing is completed--just polishing and editing now. The plan is to post three times a week for two weeks, two chapters each time, so I'll be back Wednesday late with the next update. Thanks for reading!


	3. Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: some implied passive self-harm, major angst with no comfort until next chapter

**FRIDAY EVENING**

Dick listened on the edge of his seat to Pa Kent’s story and then prompted another, and another, until they pulled up to a little white farmhouse surrounded by fields of wheat and corn. Living at Wayne Manor had destroyed what little judgment on house size he might have had, but as far as he could tell, it seemed like a small but well-loved kind of place. A real _home_ , with a little porch out front and and big porch around the back and a screen door that screeched as Pa Kent propped it open while hauling Dick’s luggage in.

“Martha!” he called. “I’ve got the boy!”

A woman on the older end of middle-aged came hurrying out of the kitchen, pulling an apron off over her head and mussing her silvery short hair. She wiped her hands off on the apron, tossed it on a set of drawers, and took Dick in her arms as if she’d known him his whole life.

“My goodness! So good to _finally_ meet you!”

Dick hadn’t been prepared to meet the Kents at all, but he certainly hadn’t expected a welcome like this. He reached up to return the gesture and felt his arms tightening around her as if it were a long-awaited hug and not a surprise one. Had his mom’s hugs been like this? He couldn’t even remember anymore, and old memories were turning into cobbled-together dreams and imaginings. Ma Kent seemed to understand, on some level, and didn’t back away until he did.

“Let’s get a look at you,” she said, taking his cheeks in her hands. “Well, aren’t you the cutest little bean of a boy?”

Dick shrugged and smiled apologetically, his cheeks awkwardly bunching under her hands. She dropped them and put her hands on her hips.

“Supper’ll be ready in just a jiff. Jonathan, why don’t you bring his things on up to Clark’s old room?”

“Yes’m,” said Pa Kent, hoisting up Dick’s luggage.

Dick leapt for the bag. “Sir, I can get—”

“Nope, you do as the lady says. We’ve got plenty for you to do starting in the morning, so you relax tonight.” Pa Kent added an exaggerated wink and then brought the bag up.

“Come on in. You like pop?”

“Yes, _please_!” He stopped himself from saying that soda was usually a special-occasions-only drink, not a random-Friday-night-dinner drink. _How_ did Bruce figure this was a punishment? Hanging out with the Kents, drinking soda, sleeping in Uncle Clark’s childhood bedroom… was there some kind of catch? Or had Bruce just made a huge Gothamite-elitist miscalculation? Either way, Dick was going to take the fullest advantage of that that he could.

Ma Kent led Dick into the kitchen and gestured to a round table covered in a floral vinyl tablecloth. The room was cheerful and homey, with yellow-and-white striped wallpaper. It would’ve looked horrendous and out-of-date at Wayne Manor, but here, it worked.

“Set yourself down,” she said, taking a Soder Cola from the fridge and pouring it over a glass of ice. “So, do we call you Dick or Robin?”

Dick’s mouth fell open. Bruce had always told him when someone else was brought into their secret. The list of those outside the Manor was short enough to count on one hand, and Bruce had never mentioned the Kents as being on it. “You… know?”

Ma Kent smiled warmly and handed him the glass. “We’ve had a pretty good idea for a long time. But Bruce came out here a few days ago and told us officially. Wanted to make sure you weren’t juggling all that while out here. This house is a safe space for you.”

“He…” Dick swallowed and found his throat unexpectedly tight. “He told you? For _me_?”

“Well, he also insisted on fiddling with all our phones and installing some kind of burglar alarm, so I imagine that was also part of it.”

Sentimentality gave way to laughter at the thought of Bruce, out here in the literal middle of Nowhere, worrying about security precautions in a house that didn’t even have a second lock on the door.

“Yeah, he does that,” Dick said, bringing the frosty glass to his lips. The bubbles and sweetness of the soda filled his mouth and reminded him of summers past and special treats after Haly’s last show at a stop.

“Dick is fine,” he finally answered. “Robin’s only when the mask’s on. Helps to keep it all… you know.”

She nodded sagely. A timer beeped loudly and she spun back toward the oven.

“Can I help?”

“No, dear, I’ve got it.” She drew out a pan from the oven and set it on the top of the range, waving at it with the oven mitt. “Tell you what, you can set the table if you’d really like to help.”

“Sure!” Dick jumped up and scanned across the kitchen, guessing where the silverware might be kept. Papers stuck out of the edge of one drawer—so not that—and another was in such pristine condition that it didn’t seem like it was ever used. He tried the third. Bingo. As he did his best to lay out the forks and knives and spoons to best approximate how he’d seen Alfred do it, Pa Kent came in.

“Smells divine,” he said. He took one seat at the table and gesturing for Dick to join him.

“Just wait ’til the pie starts baking,” said Ma Kent, setting the peas and meatloaf down on two trivets on the table. She cut into the meatloaf and served Dick his plate. “Hope you like meatloaf, Dick.”

“I like everything,” he said, waiting for her to seat herself, like Alfred had taught him.

“Guess what, dear,” started Pa Kent, sitting down. “Dickie here told me his grandma was a Martha, too.”

“Of course she was.”

“We knew that?”

Ma Kent plated meatloaf and peas onto another plate and then fixed a wilting look on her husband as she passed it to him. “We did _._ He means _Bruce_ ’s mother, I assume.”

Dick nodded awkwardly, like he’d been caught in a lie, trying to pass off Bruce’s mom as his own grandmother.

Pa Kent blinked. “Oh, now _that_ does figure. But I didn’t realize her name was Martha. _Martha_ Wayne? Is that right?”

“My _word_ , Jonathan. It was in all the papers. Not to mention we had a whole conversation about it, the first time he came.”

The _first_ time? Dick scrunched his nose. How often had Bruce come out here?

“Huh. I don’t recall.”

“Maybe you and Clark had gone outside,” she said, setting one more serving in front of herself. “And I just forgot to mention.”

“Maybe I’m just an old dope who doesn’t remember, and you’re too kind to say so,” he said, leaning over and kissing her on the top of her head.

Watching the two of them make Dick feel _lighter_ , like he had fallen into some happier universe where people got to grow old and turn grey and live happily ever after, baking meatloaf and pie.

He dug into his food. It wasn’t until his fork met his mouth that he realized just how hungry he’d been. He forced himself to swallow a bite before adding, “Wow! This is great!”

It was actually a little bland, and Dick wasn’t used to the texture of meatloaf, as Alfred didn’t tend to turn their top-quality meats into loaf form with ketchup, but it was warm and homemade and lovingly cooked up, and that made it taste just as good as anything.

“So, Dick,” said Ma, “Bruce told us you used to be best friends with an elephant?”

“Not _best_ _friends_ ,” Dick corrected. That made him sound like a sad strange person, without any human friends. But he launched into telling them all about the elephants from Haly’s, and then the other animals, and the other people, and the other acts. Every so often he worried he was boring them, but they kept nodding and asking question after question, and he was glad to have an audience who hadn’t already heard all his stories.

After an hour of that, Ma brought out the pie, and the conversation turned to their own childhoods in Kansas.

Dick didn’t think he’d ever had such a good night, but it ended abruptly when the phone rang.

Pa jumped up and answered. “Hello?” He smiled. “Oh, hiya, Bruce.”

_Bruce._

“Yeah, he’s here, safe an’ sound an’ stuffed full. You want a word?”

Dick jumped up out of his seat, but Pa Kent didn’t hand him the receiver. “All right, will do. You be safe now.”

The receiver clicked back into place with a _clang!_ and Dick stood there, empty-handed and staring at the phone.

“Sorry, son. He said was in the middle of something, that he’d call tomorrow.”

“Right.” What was he supposed to make of that? True, Bruce was usually busy, and his trip was no vacation. But it was hard to not think that this was somehow part of the punishment. Dick began to sigh, but he stopped himself. He wasn’t going to be rude in front of the Kents. Maybe that was the genius of the punishment: put him somewhere where he’d never talk back, never throw a tantrum. It was easy to fight back with stubborn, arrogant Bruce. It was even easy for Dick to push back against Alfred, who could be strict in his own way. But the Kents were too _nice_. And he was their guest.

“Dick, sweetie,” Ma Kent asked, “can you gather the plates?”

Dick snapped back to reality and started stacking the dessert plates from dinner into a little tower. He then gathered the four glasses, balancing them all in his free hand. “I’ll wash them, Mrs. Kent,” he offered.

She gave him a once-over and freed him of the glasses. “We don’t have a dishwasher. You know how to wash by hand?”

“Um.” Dick _thought_ he knew, but he hadn’t exactly been king of the kitchen at the circus—when he had tried to help, Haly or his parents had needed to drag him away from the callus-softening hot, soapy water—and even Bruce’s rustic lake cabin had a dishwasher. He’d figured it was obvious, but Ma Kent’s raised eyebrows suggested otherwise.

“Why don’t I wash, and you dry?” She traded the plates for a dishtowel and started the water.

“Sure!”

They fell into a routine, Ma Kent washing, Dick drying, and Pa Kent putting the pieces back away. Soon, everything was cleaned up and put in its proper place, and Pa yawned wide.

“And that’s _my_ cue,” he said. “You best get to sleep too, Dick. Big day of work tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

**FRIDAY NIGHT**

It was too early to sleep. It was too _quiet_ to sleep. Dick had thought Wayne Manor was quiet when he first went there, but this was a quiet beyond all quiet.

Ma and Pa Kent said goodnight around nine, went to bed, and that was that. Dick felt weird keeping his light on too long after them, so he just lay there in the dark, restless.

His phone lit up: a text from Jenny. _Still grounded?_

He let his head roll back and hit the wall. The bar mitzvah was tomorrow. He typed back: _Yah. If bruce hadnt sent me to KANSAS for maximum grounding id break my prison walls and get there anyway. Really really sorry :C_

129 characters, 31 to spare, so he added four more _really_ ’s in the last sentence and pressed _send_. The phone considered obeying, but the service out here was abysmal, and watching the progress bar inch along made him want to throw the phone into the wall. Instead, he set it down and looked around at the dark bedroom.

After his eyes had adjusted enough to the dark, he got back up out of the bed. He toed around the floor to be sure it was clear of his luggage and then fell forward, first into a stretch, and then a handstand. He lowered into a split handstand slowly to feel out his surroundings—it wouldn’t be any good to knock into something in Clark’s childhood bedroom. Sure enough, his toe brushed against the edge of a dresser. He spun and then dropped, catching himself softly and quietly.

There was no room inside to move without waking up the Kents. He looked out the window, out at the vast fields surrounding the farmhouse. Maybe he could just go for a run. He unlatched the window, tugged it open, and eyed the descent. It was only one story, but getting back in would be trickier. Which raised the question: why not just use the door like a normal person? The security system wouldn’t be nearly as sophisticated, even if Bruce had come by and installed one. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and stepped gingerly into the hallway, trying to avoid any creaking floorboards that would wake up his hosts. He managed to get all the way to the front door—or rather, to the discrete security keypad nearby. He had no tools to override it, and it was too new to have any keys clearly worn down through use. He snuck into the kitchen, and in the dim moonlight, found a tin of cornstarch. A little rough, but it would do.

Except it didn’t do. He dusted the keys with the starch and lightly blew on each to remove the excess, but no clear glimmer of a print remained. Had they even _used_ the system?

He almost laughed aloud. Of course they hadn’t. Jonathan had called the meatloaf a _special meal_. If the Kents were anything, they were creatures of habit, they were optimists, and they were kind. In combination, that added up to something else: they would absolutely have let Bruce install security to make himself feel better for allegedly putting them at risk and then not once actually activated it. Granted, there was no way Bruce hadn’t built in a backdoor failsafe to alert him or Clark of any actual danger, but Dick going out for a run shouldn’t trigger a response in that case.

At least that had given him something to do. And now he was free. He opened the door, held his breath, and stepped out onto the front porch. After shutting the door as quietly as he could and creeping down to the walkway, he relaxed. All that just to get some air.

He looked back up at the house. It was dark, mostly, but one light had been left on in the bathroom, and it glowed out the window on the side of the house. He’d go that direction, then, to give himself a beacon back. He stretched his legs, arms, and neck, and then jogged out into the corn fields.

Corn, it turned out, had leaves that were sharp and cut into your arms and legs. After a while, he hardly noticed the pain of it. Or maybe he did, but it made him feel a less stranded, in a way. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself in the middle of a fight, slipping between the knives of an army of henchmen. Maybe he should’ve gone the other way, through the wheat, but he liked knowing that the light behind him was visible. The farther out he got, the more a comfort that was, even if the corn was anything but.

He ran and ran and ran and then suddenly, the knives of the corn-goons fell away and he found himself in a fallow field. A breeze picked up, reminding him of the fresh scrapes that now covered his forearms—which usually were well-protected by gloves.

The rustle of something living caught his attention. Something behind him. Instinctively, he dropped down, turned halfway and froze, listening, scanning for any sign of someone one there.

“Hello?”

No one answered.

Of course no one answered.

The wind whistled through the crops—the only response Dick would get.

People were asleep. There was nothing strange about that. And yet.

Two glowing dots shone out from the tall grasses, and then disappeared as the thing rustled away. Of course: just some opossum or raccoon, a threat to the crops, maybe, but not to him.

It was almost funny: a highly-trained fighter, put on edge by some rodent undoubtedly thirty times more terrified. Except instead of laughing, Dick felt an emptiness reaching up from his stomach to his heart.

Everything here was so _ordinary_ , and every ordinary thing was just a reminder that he didn’t belong. Even Clark had spent some time being ordinary, just a kid in a small town. But Dick had never had an ordinary life.

His earliest memories were of the trapeze, of learning to flip into a knee hang, of practicing, practicing, of putting smiles and astonished wide eyes of wonder on the faces of everyone who saw him. And then everything had changed, and he’d become Robin. He spent hours practicing still, now putting astonished wide eyes of disbelief and fear on the faces of the criminals that scurried beneath the city—or reaching out with a friendly hand and joke to put a smile on the face of a victim. He thrived on it: on the disciplined purpose, on the audience. And now he had neither.

He slumped onto the grassy ground and looked at the scrapes on his arms, glinting in the moonlight. They were like a million little paper-cuts, a million little reminders that he should’ve been out tonight protecting Gotham, not running in fields.

His phone buzzed and he pulled it out and flipped it open. Jenny again. _Sorry about Kansas. Can we talk when you get back?_

It didn’t take a psychic to guess what that talk was going to be. And the thing was, he couldn’t even be mad about it. About any of it.

He’d _really_ made a mess of things, hadn’t he?

It would be easy to blame Bruce for it all, but deep down, Dick _knew_ it was his own fault. That wasn’t the first fight he’d picked with Bruce. It had happened, over and over, recently. No wonder Bruce didn’t want to talk to him on the phone, knowing it would just turn into another stupid argument. No wonder Bruce wanted to get rid of him, throw him to the Kents in hopes that he’d come back a little less angry. A little more cooperative. A little more _Clark_.

That thought hit Dick like a steel punch to the gut. He hadn’t just disappointed Bruce—Clark probably thought he was terrible now, too. He had to have been in on the idea to send Dick here, but that only made it worse. Dick was an imposter, pretending to be some good kid, accepting the Kents’ hospitality, when he’d been _so rude_ to Clark in the Batcave. Bruce was right. It was about character, and Dick was kidding himself if he thought he had any.

He rested his chin on his knees and blinked away the hot tears that welled up in his eyes and blurred his vision. They fell from his face, stinging his scraped arms with their salt, and he let himself cry even more.

Maybe he should’ve been embarrassed to cry in public, but there was no one to see.

That was the worst part of all. He’d only fought with Bruce because he was tired of being lonely, of needing to hide half his life from everyone he was supposedly friends with. But he’d pushed too hard, and now he was _completely_ alone. No Bruce or Alfred. No friends. No strangers, even. Just a bunch of wheat and corn and some cows. And, sure, two _really_ nice lovely people, but they were the kind of people who would be nice to anyone. They weren’t friends or family, and now, out here on the dead-quiet road, the word _orphan_ hit him harder than it had since the first weeks after he’d lost his parents.

A terrible sound—something like a howl mixed with a pained wail—pierced the silence and shook Dick from his self-pity. He jumped up, his vigilante instincts kicking in again, but there was no monster or murderer to fight, no victim to save. Only coyotes.

Somehow, that wasn’t a comforting thought.

Bruce told him once how humans were hardwired to fear darkness, not because of murderers and thieves, but because of coyotes and mountain lions and bears stalking the night. Without the ability to see, humans are helpless at night, and that makes them afraid. It’s a good fear, Bruce had said. The kind that keeps people alive. At night, people were supposed to gather inside, huddled together in safety with their families.

But here Dick was, like an evolutionary failure, stranded in a field in the dark night with no home and no family.

The darkness out here was dark in a way he wasn’t actually used to in Gotham. The Manor was usually lit up as a beacon of its own, and that was assuming you couldn’t see the bright lights of Gotham, which never went out. He looked back at the Kent farmhouse and the light he’d left on, just a speck in the distance amid the rows and rows of corn. Maybe they weren’t family, but they’d taken him into their home, and that didn’t count for nothing. So he stood back up and began to run again, back toward the light.


	4. Rehabilitation

 

**SATURDAY MORNING**

Pale blue skies reflected off of the glass-and-steel skyscrapers and sent morning light streaming through the windows of the _Daily Planet_ offices. Though somewhat soundproof, the glass did not block city noise from Clark’s ears, and so the murmurings of Metropolis waking up to another Saturday morning mixed with the clacking of Clark’s keyboard. He’d risen with the sun and come in early, letting himself settle into his desk and work without needing to walk the gauntlet of office chit-chat. Not that he minded his coworkers, but he was hoping to get as much done as possible before running out to breakfast. Mostly pressingly, he had to finish polishing his story on the dark side Luthor’s latest gentrification in Southside and then come up with something new to pitch for next week. He _had_ tried to pitch a story on crime in Gotham to Perry, but until he could get an angle on it that wouldn’t upset Bruce, it was no use (“Great idea, Kent,” Perry had said. “What’s next week? _Water: Wet_?”).

Finally, he sent his story to print in order to give it a last read-over before the publishing deadline. He was only gone a minute, but when he came back from the printer, Lois Lane was sitting on his desk, kicking her leg as if she’d been waiting for him for hours.

“Up early, Smallville. Rooster wake you?”

“You know I don’t fly in and out of Kansas _every day_ , right?” Clark chuckled. “I don’t drop half my paycheck on a walk-up studio for no reason.”

“I _don’t_ know that. Has anyone seen this studio? Maybe you need to invite me over.”

Clark looked down at his shoes. “I, uh, don’t think would be very, uh—approp—”

“See, I wouldn’t _think_ you still live in Kansas,” Lois continued, blowing past his modesty, “but you’ve retained that wide-eyed farm-boy look and hayseed accent for so long, it begs the question.”

“Raises the question,” countered Clark, looking up and adjusting his glasses.

Lois arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Begs the question means something else.”

“No one likes a prescriptivist, Kent.”

Clark crossed his arms. “I’m not one. I’m just saying that _raises_ is a perfectly good word with no ambiguity.”

“Well, I happened to mean what I said. Your _alleged_ shoebox of an apartment doesn’t satisfy the logical claim you’re making. You could very well still live in Kansas and be fooling us all. After all, _Superman_ could zip back and forth.”

“Are you implying that I _am_ Superman, Lois, or that Superman stops saving the world each night and morning so he can carry me home to see my parents?”

Lois laughed at that—unlike her voice, always sharp and cutting, her laugh was warm and soft. He could get lost in it, so easily. But then her laugh faded.

“Honestly, I don’t know which image is more ridiculous,” she said. “Fine. Forget Superman. Maybe _Bruce Wayne_ bought you a private jet. You’ve been pals ever since that exclusive. Or is it _more_ than pals?”

“What? No!” She’d obviously seen the tabloid headlines that Bruce had allowed. Encouraged. A smokescreen, throw off the trail of why a billionaire would every be seen with a farmboy-turned-newspaperman. But just in case, he asked, “Where’d you hear that?”

“Don’t recall the paper, but it had a great feature on how Elvis is coming back from the dead to usher in the apocalypse.”

“Well, there you have it, Lo. You figured it all out. I’m Superman, Bruce Wayne and I are a hot ticket item, and Elvis is back for the end of the world.”

“You _did_ seem awfully jealous when he was flirting with me at that gala last month.”

“I wasn’t—not like that! I was—” Clark bit back his words. Maybe he’d been a _little_ jealous, but only because Bruce and Lois connected so easily. Clark had spent his first year at the _Planet_ calling Lois _Ms. Lane_ , and it’d taken him the better part of a year to crack Bruce’s shell. But ten minutes into a party with the two of them, and Clark had been left awkwardly to the side of their combative, flirty repartee and semi-cruel commentary on the other partygoers. They were so alike: slim, polished, cosmopolitan, quick, and _just_ arrogant enough to be irresistible. Not that Clark wasn’t quick and charming when he wanted to be, but… not like that. Not like them. “I wasn’t jealous. And I’m not _dating_ Bruce Wayne.”

“No need to be defensive—no one’s _judging_ , Smallville.” She cocked her head and crossed her legs, and Clark did his best to keep his eyes off them. “I lied. I _am_ judging. But not like you think.”

“There’s nothing to judge.”

“Mmhmm,” she said, dangling her black pump off her heel. “I can see it, I guess. You _are_ a breath of fresh air next to all those dumbass socialites that he pretends to find appealing.”

“I’m not a breath of— He doesn’t pretend— _Listen_ , Lois, if you don’t _mind_ …” He reached back and massaged his neck with one hand while folding the printed papers in his other. “I gotta get to my desk. I’m meeting someone at eight.”

“Ohh, new lead?” She uncrossed her legs, put her palms flat on the desk, and leaned forward with a hungry gleam in her eye. “Tell.”

“Fat chance. You’d just try to scoop me.”

“I can’t _scoop_ you, Clark,” she said, smiling sweetly. “We’re on the same _team_.”

Clark laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, tell Perry that. See you at our one o’clock?”

Lois groaned. “Fine, be that way.” She hopped off the desk and patted his shoulder. “Tell Brucie _hi_.”

“I’m _not_ seeing—” Clark started, but she was already gone, sparking up a conversation with Jimmy about reviewing shots he’d taken for her next piece. He glanced up at the clock. 9:01. He’d wasted time. And he was still in the middle of the office, with more people arriving by the minute.

He ducked out as quickly as he could and took to the sky.

The world became quieter as soon as he left the East Coast, but he didn’t have time to savor it. He sped through the skies until he came up on the farm outside of Smallville. As he made his descent, he listened for familiar voices.

“He _did_ say he was coming, right, Jonathan?”

“He did, but he probably just got held up. We should sit. He’ll give us grief if we wait around to eat.”

“It’s only 8:02. We’ll give him three more minutes.”

“Three more minutes and these eggs’ll lose their charm.”

Clark flew up to the second floor, sending a sudden breeze knocking into the shutters. He came in the window of his old room, grabbed a shirt from the closet—just in case any neighbors popped by—and hurried downstairs.

“Sorry I’m late!” he called.

“Toldja,” whispered Ma.

Clark stepped in to the kitchen, buttoning up a light blue flannel over the dark blue of his suit. They were all gathered at the table already, Dick between Pa and an empty seat. “Told who what?”

“Your Pa thought we should give up and start eating.”

“Two _minutes_ , Pa!”

Pa Kent shrugged. “Hey now, I just said you’d be ornery if you got stuck somewhere in a crisis and we were all sittin’ around like bumps on a log.”

“Well, all right, that’s true,” said Clark, taking his seat. “Glad to see you got here in one piece, Dickie.”

Dick smiled, but it wasn’t the beaming grin that he usually gave Clark. It was cautious, uncertain, and his eyes were cast down at his arms, which were well scraped up. They looked just like Pete’s had, after they had stupidly decided to have a race through the fields. Clark had won—partly thanks to his developing strength and speed, and partly thanks to being completely unaffected by the sharp green corn.

“You okay?”

Dick nodded. And his lips moved, almost imperceptibly, but Clark heard the whispered words: “I’m sorry.”

Clark’s heart sank. Had Dick spent the past week thinking he was upset with him? He gave Dick’s shoulder a _very_ light squeeze and smiled warmly. “I’m _so_ glad you’re here, Dick. I’ve been telling Ma and Pa about Robin for ages, and they kept asking when they’d get to meet you.”

Dick’s eyes lifted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sorry I didn’t tell you that you were coming here.”

“It’s okay. Bruce make you promise to keep it secret?”

Clark held his hands out apologetically.

“I figured,” Dick said, resigned.

Pa picked up his fork and moved to dig into the eggs, but Ma cleared her throat.

“Clark, you want to say grace?” Ma Kent asked.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Martha,” Pa Kent grumbled. “It’s breakfast!”

“It’s breakfast _with our son_ ,” Martha clarified. “That makes it special.”

“ _Ma_ ,” Clark said. “It’s not _that_ special.”

Pa put his fork down. “Just say grace, Clark, so your Ma’ll let us eat.”

Clark glanced at Dick for a quick check-in. It definitely wasn’t a custom at Wayne Manor, and he didn’t want Dick to feel uncomfortable, but Dick gave the subtlest of shrugs and smiled back. _No problem._ Clark took Ma’s and Dick’s hands and bowed his head.

“For this time and this place, for your goodness and your grace,” Clark recited, just as he had since he had learned it in Scouts, “for each friend we embrace, we give you thanks, O Lord. Amen.” He squeezed Dick’s hand to let him know he was in the clear.

“Ay-men,” said Ma with a smile.

Pa wasted no time or words and shoveled a huge bite of eggs into his mouth. Clark couldn’t blame him—he’d already probably done a solid three hours’ work.

“How early did Pa get you up, Dick?”

Dick grinned, finally more at ease. “We got up at like, _four-thirty_ in the morning or something, which I didn’t even really know was a time that existed, but after that it wasn’t so bad.”

“Dick helped Pa with the morning chores,” Ma explained. “He fed the chickens and is learning his way around the dairy.”

“How was that?”

“Great!” Dick said, laying on a heavy layer of enthusiasm, probably to cover a lack of sleep. “I liked Velma. I don’t think I realized how big cows are.”

“Smaller’n an elephant, though,” Ma noted, serving some home fries onto Dick’s plate.

Dick smiled up at Ma. “Yeah, smaller than that.”

Clark leaned back with satisfaction, seeing Dick and Ma like that, already building a rapport. It wasn’t a surprise, of course—there were few people on Earth more welcoming and kind than Ma, and few more open to new friendships than Dick Grayson. They were so _good_. And Pa, graciously taking Dick under his wing, acting like it was completely normal and natural to have some boy from the city help him with Velma. Clark smiled wider as Dick continued regaling him with updates from his new life as a farmer.

As Pa finished off the last of the bacon, he picked up his coffee and shifted his attention to Clark. “And you, son? Keeping busy?”

“Busy as ever. Lois and I are trying to get to the bottom of Luthor’s forays into energy, and those tornadoes in Oklahoma a few days ago really did a number on those folks, so I was helping them rebuild. And the President wants to sit down next week to go over some concern, but no one’s told me what, yet, so I’m trying to figure that out so they can’t just use me like some hired gun.”

“ _Plus,_ he’s filling in for Batman,” Dick announced.

Clark grimaced. Dick couldn’t have known what he was doing, couldn’t have known how Pa would cross his big arms across his chest and stare down Clark, making him feel all but twelve years old again. “You’re doing _what_ now?”

“Um.” Clark turned his eyes away from Pa and Ma. “I, uh, said I’d keep an eye on Gotham while Bruce is gone. Just here and there.”

Ma joined in on the chastisement now. “You know you _can_ say no sometimes, dear. Take care of yourself on top of the rest of the world? I know it’s for Bruce, but—”

“It’s _just_ here and there,” he repeated. “It was my idea, to help Bruce out. It’s like Pa always says: if you _can_ help, you _should_ help. And I can do it. No big deal. Really.”

Pa sighed, but then the corner of his mouth twitched with the hint of a smile, and he picked up an extra slice of bacon. “You got time in that schedule to help with harvest?”

“I’d love to!” He caught himself and dropped his shoulders, realizing that he might not actually be able to help. He’d always made coming home for the harvests a priority, but every year it got harder to do. The worst thing was, it wasn’t his job as Superman that made it tricky. It was his work as Clark Kent. “I mean, I can’t make any promises, but I’ll at least _try_ to clear a little time with the _Planet_.”

Pa clicked his teeth. “I don’t envy you, son. Working for another man.”

“Perry’s a good boss.” Clark shrugged. They’d been through this conversation before, a hundred times. “You checking the crop today?”

“Yep,” said Pa. “I was thinking I’d bring Dick over after breakfast. It’s getting close.”

Dick’s ears perked up at his name.

“We’d be so lucky,” said Ma. “It _would_ be nice to get through harvest while we have Dick around to help.”

“Harvest? How do I help with that?”

Ma Kent laughed. “Don’t you worry just yet. You’ll go with Jonathan to the grain elevator today, and then we’ll see.”

“What’s a grain elevator?”

“It’s where they store the grain, but they measure it there too, for moisture. You have to wait for the wheat to dry _just_ enough,” Clark explained, “and then move as fast as you can to harvest it all before any rain can hit and weigh it down. Everyone comes together for harvest, pitches all in to get it done.”

“Mmhmm,” hummed Pa, the sound amplified in the oversized coffee mug.

Clark got the suggestion clear enough. “I _said_ I’ll try to make it, Pa.”

Pa looked over his mug and his eyes crinkled in a smile. “I know, son. If you can’t, we’ll just be just fine.”

“And they’ll have me,” Dick jumped in. “I mean, I probably am pretty useless compared to you, since I don’t have powers, but—”

Clark and Pa interrupted at the same time. “Hardly,” Clark said, while Pa said, “No powers on the fields.”

Sounds in the distance distracted Clark from his next point. Morning news. Reports of tornadoes. And in the distance, sirens. But he was in Flash’s territory, and Flash was good with tornadoes. He might not be needed. “Hey, Ma… Can you turn on the news?”

Ma knew better than to protest—if Clark interrupted a family meal, even after everyone had finished eating, it was never for no reason. She flicked on the kitchen television to a scene of rain and wind.

Clark stood up and waited impatiently for the shot to change to a map. There were several tornados, an hour south of Central City.

In some ways, Clark hated natural disasters the most, because there was no way to make sense of the destruction and death wrought by the most basic elements, and the inequality of suffering almost always went unnoticed, however many words he had woven into story after story of the same injustice. At the same time, those crises were the ones that brought every kind of people together, working hand in hand to salvage the salvageable and rebuilt what was lost. Those were the moments that kept him going.

“The Flash’ll have that taken care of in a shake of a lamb’s tail,” Ma said, patting Clark’s arm. “He’s our local boy, you know.”

“Your local—” Clark sputtered.

Behind him, Dick barely stifled a giggle. “You _are_ the man of Metropolis,” he noted. “Not Smallville.”

“No, I’m—I’m _Superman_. Superman lives in the Fortress of Solitude, not Metropolis. I’m _Earth’s_ hero.”

“Tell that to Metropolis,” muttered Dick through a piece of toast.

“You don’t think Flash can handle it on his own?” Ma asked. “It’s just a tornado.”

“Maybe.” Clark clenched his jaw. He wasn’t so convinced. He’d only just arrived. It wasn’t fair to his parents, to Dick, to leave so soon, but he couldn’t stand aside. “It’d be easier with me there. It’d take two people to—”

The footage cut to a shot of a blur of red spiraling around the tornado, but there was a yellow blur, too. In person, he’d be able to see more, but the images were only as good as the cameras. A caption appeared, blazoned across the bottom of the screen: _KID FLASH?_

Dick’s fork clanged against the plate. “That’s _him_ ,” he said. “Kid Flash! The boy from the phone call. Isn’t it, Uncle Clark?”

“Yeah, that’s him.” Clark nodded, semi-absent-mindedly, almost in disbelief. “I should go.”

“Clark, I know you want to help,” said Pa, “but it looks like they’ve got it under control.”

Clark crossed his arms. The Flash— _Flashes_ —did have the tornadoes under control, but he still had to go. “But I can help,” he said. “Scan for victims, move rubble—”

“It’s all right, Clark,” Ma said, tucking a curl of hair behind his ear. “Go on. We just like seeing you.”

“Can I come?” Dick asked.

“No. You stay _here_.”

“But I can help, too—”

“Dick.” Clark gave him a knowing look. “You help Ma and Pa.”

Dick nodded, but his eyes were already glued back to the footage of the two speedsters on the news.

“Pa, I—”

“Go on, son,” said Pa, not waiting for any excuse or explanation. “If you _can_ help…”

Clark didn’t wait to hear the rest.

 

* * *

 

After breakfast, Dick followed Pa Kent into the truck. It sputtered into gear and they rolled back down the gravel driveway and screeched onto the road. They drove without talking for a little while, just listening to the sound of the engine and full-blast air-conditioning and the twanging country music on the radio. Dick was used to filing car rides with chatter, but Pa Kent had the music up high and was tapping his hands along with it, and Dick didn’t want to interrupt. He was a burden enough as it was.

“So,” Pa Kent said, turning down the volume, “Bruce didn’t say much about what landed you out here. Only that you were grounded.”

It wasn’t necessarily a question, but Dick was supposed to fill Pa Kent in. At least Bruce hadn’t said anything and had left Dick able to explain himself in his own terms. But now that he had the chance, he wasn’t sure how to paint himself in any kind of a good light. Dick looked away, ashamed of how he’d acted. “Yeah… I was rude. I argued with him about a stupid thing and made a scene when Uncle Clark was there.”

The old farmer nodded in understanding. “A stupid thing like you shouldn’t have argued, or like Bruce shouldn’t’ve been mad?”

“Both,” said Dick. “It wasn’t a stupid thing. But I was stupid about it. It wasn’t the right way to argue, and when I had the chance to apologize, I didn’t. It was _really_ rude. To Clark especially.” He flushed with embarrassment at the last part. He thought the world of Clark, and now Clark’s dad was going to think he was some kind of spoiled jerk.

“You think you deserved to be grounded?”

Dick took a deep breath. “Maybe,” he said. “But he said I couldn’t be Robin either. I thought I’d just be trapped in Gotham, not here. This isn’t so bad.”

“Am I not working you hard enough?” Pa Kent sounded serious enough, but his words came through a smile.

“I _like_ the work,” Dick explained. “And I like being here, seeing where Uncle Clark grew up. It’s nice. I miss Gotham, but I thought I’d be in for some kind of torture.”

It _had_ seemed like torture, the night before. But now that he was with Pa Kent again, the situation seemed much less dire that it had then. They had a task ahead. And he had company. And Clark didn’t hate him after all.

“You ever consider, maybe he didn’t want to torture you? That’s usually not the goal of parents, you know. We aren’t looking for revenge. We try to make our kids better people, as best they can be.”

“Rehabilitation, not retribution,” Dick said, the words falling easily off his tongue.

“Those are some ten-cent words on a nickel-sized boy,” remarked Pa.

Dick laughed. “It’s stuff Bruce made me study. There are five theories of punishment,” he said, almost reciting, “Retribution, deterrence, incapacitation, rehabilitation, and… one other one.” He cocked his head, searching through his mind for the word. “Restitution. Like paying back what you stole. Retribution is getting back at someone. Vengeance, sort of. Deterrence is scaring them. Incapacitation is keeping them from hurting anyone else. Making someone better… that’s rehabilitation.”

Pa Kent’s eyebrows were raised. “You gettin’ a degree in this?”

“Sort of,” Dick laughed. “I’m _Robin_ , remember?”

The truck pulled into the granary and up to a trailer. “So. You reckon you’re supposed to learn a lesson.”

“Yeah.” Dick nodded and looked down at his knees, which had been cut up by the corn stalks. Bruce had said this was about _character_. And somehow he thought that working on the farm with the Kents would do that. “You got any lessons to teach?”

“I don’t know about lessons… I got a wheat sample that needs testing, though.” Pa Kent turned off the engine and opened the door, stepping one foot out while waiting for Dick to unbuckle. “Come on, son. Don’t overthink it.”

They walked in, Pa Kent carrying a can in his hands.

“Hey,” said a rosy-faced young women. “Here for a sample?”

“Yup.”

She took the canister and typed some information into a machine before pouring the grain in. “Fifteen,” she said.

Pa sighed and took the can back. “Wishful thinking,” he said.

“Sure close, though.”

Pa hummed in agreement. “We’ll be back in a couple days. How’s your Pa’s truck running?”

“Right as rain, thanks to you,” she said. “Won’t be needing any help hauling feed again, I hope.”

“Not a problem. You give him my best, now.”

“Will do, Mister Kent. You take care.”

“C’mon, Dick.” He turned them around, back to the truck. “Gotta wait until it’s under fourteen, and then we’ll be ready to roll. You can join me on the combine.”

“What’s a combine?”

Pa stopped at the truck door and shook his head. “We’re gonna need to start with the basics, huh? Get in.”

Dick obeyed, preparing himself for an in-depth lecture.

“The combine’s the machine that does the harvesting,” Pa Kent began. “It reaps the wheat, threshes it, and winnows, so we can get paid for the good stuff that feeds you, and leave behind the straw and the rest of it. We’ll bale up some of the straw for the cattle, to feed them too.”

Pa Kent delved further in, describing the threshing process, the upkeep of the combine, the decision as to when to buy a new one that might give a greater yield in faster time. “One person’ll be in the combine, and the other’ll then haul the wheat back up this way,” he explained. “We’ll switch off, usually, because the days are long.”

“How long?”

“Sixteen, seventeen hours.”

Dick did the math on that one. Waking up at four-thirty like they did today and getting started at five would mean finishing at nine or ten. That _was_ a long day. But then, Dick was used to managing long days.

“It’s a lot of work, but it’s fun. Clark used to love harvest,” said Pa.

“Sounded like he still does,” Dick noted.

Pa Kent shrugged. “He does more interesting things than sit in a truck for hours in this little town. That’s all right. I know Smallville ain’t much.”

Hearing Pa Kent be so hard on Clark didn’t sit right. Dick adjusted himself in his seat to see the old farmer better. “Mister Kent, you know Clark _loves_ Smallville, don’t you? He talks about it _all_ the time.”

“He only thinks he misses it, but he outgrew us—and that’s fine. He just doesn’t want to say that and hurt our feelings.”

“Maybe it’s not _outgrew_ ,” Dick offered. “Maybe he just… has to be somewhere else. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love it here, too, or miss it. I mean. I like Gotham. I love being Robin, but I miss the circus _all the time_. My family was there for five generations, you know? I never thought I’d leave.”

“From what I hear, you didn’t have much of a choice.”

Dick shook his head. “I did, though. I could’ve gone back. But it wouldn’t have been the same without them.” Dick looked at his reflection in the dusty window, away from Pa Kent. “I didn’t fight with my parents. Not like with Bruce.”

“How old are you, son?”

“Thirteen.”

Pa chuckled and turned the worn-down steering wheel. “Course you didn’t fight with your parents, back then. Everyone gets along with their parents when they’re little. You’re just growing up, that’s all. Even Clark was a handful at your age.”

“Clark? No way.” Clark could go up against rules, sure, but only evil rules. Not... Ma-and-Pa-Kent rules.

Pa Kent just laughed.

“Did he get grounded?”

“Wasn’t much of a punishment. He’d just hole up and read. Or worse, _write_.”

”What’s so bad about writing?”

“Have you ever read Clark’s tirades against cruelty and oppression?” Pa’s words sounded like a complaint, but his voice was full to the brim with pride. “Open the glove-box there.”

Dick followed the command, and folded receipts spilled out. Pa, undeterred, reached a hand over without thinking and thumbed through to tug out a faded red folder labeled ED’S AUTOBODY. He handed it to Dick, who opened it to find not receipts, but a set of news clippings. Not stories about Superman. These were stories by Clark.

“First one on the left, way back,” said Pa.

The furthest-back sheet had yellowed and the once-black ink had faded, but the words were clear enough: _The Plight of Pete, by Clark J. Kent._

“I forbade him from getting involved in some fool junior-high fist fight. He didn’t take kindly to that, and so I sent him to his room. That story _almost_ changed my mind.”

“Almost?”

Pa nodded. “Pete—Clark’s friend—wasn’t the bullied victim Clark made him out to be in that op-ed there. He’d been a dope and got himself into a fight, fair and square, and he had to learn to duke it out himself. Clark just didn’t like being sidelined.”

“I don’t think I’d like that either.”

“Course not. Who wants to see their friend get socked in the mouth?” The truck pulled into a parking space and Pa put the gear in park before turning to Dick. “But sometimes you have to let a guy’s fight be his own. You know that?”

Dick scrunched his face. “Sometimes Batman has us wait and watch before jumping in, because it might make things worse to get involved. You mean like that?”

“I mean that helping like that isn’t always the helpful thing to do. Some people just need a little encouragement to stand up on their own two feet, and if you let them do that, they end up stronger for it.”

“What happened?” Dick held up the paper. “To Pete?”

Pa grimaced. “He got the tar beat out of him. But then, he also got respect, for standing up to it. And he learned to watch his words after that. Maybe too careful—turned into a politician.“

“Oh.” Dick nodded. “But you kept the story?”

“Sure did. It’s good writing. And even if the scenario is all wrong, Clark’s heart is all right. _If you can help, you should help_ , he said. I think about that near every day.”

“Even though it’s about you. Even though you grounded him.”

Pa laughed. “Yeah, even though. All kids’ve got some lesson they have to learn, according to who they are. Me, I was always in trouble for being a stubborn mule. Clark, well,” he gestured to the essay. “He’s still learning when to fight and when to stay out of someone’s business, isn’t he?”

Dick relaxed. There was a comfort in it, that even Uncle Clark, who was nearly perfect, got in fights with Ma and Pa—who were also nearly perfect themselves. Maybe there wasn’t anything wrong with him or Bruce. Maybe they were just normal. He bit his lip, wondering what lesson he was meant to learn. His parents mostly yelled at him for having a big head, but with Bruce, it was always, _Don’t be so reckless!_ Dick grinned, thinking about it, but then his grin fell. What was Bruce trying to teach him here?

 _Don’t overthink it_ , Pa Kent had said.  Dick tried his best not to.

 

* * *

 

**SATURDAY EVENING**

Not overthinking it was easier said that done. Dick spent the rest of the day turning the idea over in his head, analyzing every task Pa Kent gave him for evidence of a lesson in character that Bruce would have sent him here to learn. It was hard work, but Dick was no stranger to that.

When Ma Kent answered the phone that night and said, “Oh hey, Bruce dear,” Dick leapt forward and silently insisted he be able to talk to his guardian this time. Ma Kent obliged.

“Hi,” Dick began.

“Hello, Dick,” said Bruce, calm and friendly, like they hadn’t last talked through gritted teeth. “How are you managing out there?”

It had only been two days, but Bruce’s voice filled Dick with a muddled combination of homesickness and resentment. “Everything’s great.”

“Are you working hard?”

“Yeah. I spent all day with Pa—Mister—Kent. And um, Clark came for breakfast. How’s your trip?”

Bruce hummed in thought. “Enlightening.”

“Listen, Bruce, um.” Dick cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for how I acted in the Cave.”

“You said that already.”

“I know, but. I want you to know. I know we’ve been fighting a lot, but… Mister Kent says that’s normal.”

“Does he?”

Dick wrapped the curled phone cord around his arm, over and over. “Yeah. You know, between um. Fathers and sons.”

“Right,” said Bruce, the syllable a little strangled.

“Do you think—is there a lesson I’m supposed to learn, Bruce?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away, and Dick grew antsy, tugging the coils of the cord until they flipped inside-out.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he continued, “trying to figure it out, and I don’t know. Although… you said once that I need to be a good soldier and follow your orders. And I try to, but I know I don’t always. And being out here, I don’t really have a choice, do I? Not just to follow them, but I can’t argue them either, because I don’t know anything about farming. So it’s like… obedience?” The last word pitched up and softened in uncertainty.

“Hn,” Bruce grunted.

It wasn’t a good _hn_. It was a _hn_ of disappointment.

No, then. What else could it be? “Am I warm, at least?”

“No.”

“Um. Like Batcave cold or Fortress of Solitude cold?”

Bruce didn’t answer that, of course, but the tone of his voice suggested that Dick’s guess was in Antarctic territory.

“Why _else_ would you send me here?” Dick asked. He’d come up short. Failed.

“You tell me.”

Dick blinked. This was the test. It was just like a case. Motive. Method. Bruce didn’t just send Dick to a farm, or to any farm in Kansas. He sent him to the _Kents_. Either he thought Dick needed to learn to be more like Clark (which Dick wouldn’t mind, except that he was _already_ far more like Clark than Bruce), or there was something about Ma and Pa Kent that Bruce wanted to affect him.

Dick just wasn’t sure what, yet.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Figure it out,” Bruce commanded. And then the phone clicked off, and Dick was alone again, more confused than he had started.


	5. Inheritance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read "The Flame and the Night," you'll notice some repeat here -- I wrote that first and the rest of this spun off from it. I am building on the New 52/Rebirth version of the legend here, along with the idea that this was a story Dick had heard long before he needed a new name.

**SATURDAY NIGHT**

Once again, the Kents turned in early, shortly after supper, but waking up early and learning the ropes on the farm all day had drained him, and his conversation with Bruce had left him even lower in energy than before. Still, when night came, he found it hard to sleep. So he lay there, on Clark’s old bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why Bruce had sent him out here.

A light _thump_ from above broke the silence. Dick opened the window and looked up, but there was nothing there. Probably just an owl. Then again, it could be something exciting. It could even be Clark. Doubtful, but there was a chance of it, so Dick found purchase in the windowsill and hoisted himself up until he reach the edge of the roof. Bare hands and bare feet were not the best for climbing, but he pulled himself up toward the roof, brought his head over, and—

“Hiya, Dick,” said Clark, right in his face.

Dick recoiled in shock and lost his grip. Before he could register that he was falling, a firm hand caught his and hauled him back up, dropping him lightly onto the roof. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” said Clark, touching back down on the roof. “Just had to come get some fresh air after Gotham City.”

“I was _surprised_ , not scared,” Dick corrected. He climbed higher up the roof and sat himself down. The shingles were still warm from the heat of the day, and even in just his tank top and boxer-briefs, the night air was more than warm enough. “I knew you were up here.”

“Wow.” Clark chuckled and took a seat next to Dick. “You sound just like him sometimes.”

Dick scrunched his nose. He wasn’t sure he wanted to sound like Bruce. Then again, he now only had one question on his mind, and there was no use trying to pretend otherwise: “How’s Gotham?”

“Fine. Well, fine for _Gotham_.”

“Anyone give you trouble?”

“Nope. Broke up a gang fight. Most of ‘em scattered as soon as they saw the Bat. A few shot at me, but…” He shrugged.

“Which gangs?”

“They didn’t give me their names.”

Dick blinked with impatience. “Okay… Where were they?”

“Oh. Um, on the middle island? No, wait. The northern one.”

“Wait. You don’t know where you _were_?”

“It was dark,” Clark said lamely.

“It was _dark_?” Suddenly, Bruce’s frequent irritation with Clark made some sense. Dick had always thought it was some kind of stubbornness or insecurity that made him refuse to acknowledge how _awesome_ Clark was. Clark could fly and see through walls and save a falling bridge with his bare hands, _and_ he was really smart and nice on top of it all. 

Clark was an awesome superhero. But Clark was _not_ an awesome vigilante. 

Dick dragged his hand across his face in second-hand embarrassment. He peeked over the edges of his fingers and made a strangled sound into his hands to keep from laughing at the absurdity of it.

“Hey, now! Usually I get my bearings from overhead. I heard gunshots, so I went to them. Once everyone was safe, I left. Bruce said that I’m not supposed to stick around long anywhere, so I was just focusing on triaging as much as I could, not investigating.”

“Okay. That’s fine,” Dick said, more reassuring himself than Clark. “Just… Write down everything you remember, and I’ll do my best to provide the… you know. _Names of things_.”

“Writing, I can do.”

“You _still_ sure you don’t need my help?”

“Sorry, kiddo. Bruce was _pretty_ clear on that front. Honestly, he’d probably feel better _without_ me learning all the ins and outs of Gotham. But I’ll write up a draft report, and you can fix it up with proper nouns and local details. How’s that sound?”

“Good. If I have the time.”

“Farm treating you okay?”

“Yeah. Pretty okay. We’re, um, not ready to harvest yet. The lady said _fifteen_?”

“Close, then.”

“Yeah, that’s what she said.” Dick looked down at his hands. “Hey, Uncle Clark?”

“Mmhmm?”

“I _am_ sorry. For how I acted. I don’t want you to think of me like that. Angry and rude and—”

“I _told_ you: I’m happy you’re here.” Clark shifted to look Dick in the eye. “Being your age is hard enough as is, and you carry a lot of extra burdens on top of it. I know what that’s like, to deal with that and take it out on the wrong people. And I know you didn’t mean to put me in the middle of it.”

A huge weight dropped off Dick’s shoulders. “You mind if I stay out here with you? Just for a bit?”

“I don’t mind. You might be sorry when Pa wakes you up tomorrow before dawn, but then you’d miss _this_.” Clark leaned back, looking up at the sky.

For the first time since coming outside, Dick turned his attention to the land and sky around them. 

As much as Batman and Robin were creatures of night, two years in Gotham had made Dick forget what a real night sky should look like. Not that he didn’t know on some level, if he thought hard enough about it. He remembered rural stops on the circus route where the stars were too many to count, but they were distant memories. Instead, he’d gotten used to the silhouettes of skyscrapers against a reddish haze, the man-made light reflected by the fog that clung around Gotham City. His mind had tricked him into thinking that the stars visible from an upstate camping trip were all there were to see.

But outside of Smallville, far from any city, there was no patch of sky without stars, no darkness not dappled in twinkling points of light. The sky was almost _bright_ , and yet the darkness was far darker than any in Gotham. There was no depth to the Gotham night, only a blanket just dark enough to bring out the worst in people. Here, though, the darkness in between the stars seemed to go on forever, deep into the furthest reaches of the universe. Except it didn’t _seem_. It _did_ go on forever. And the Milky Way, spread across it all, beckoned close like a cloud made of brilliant light. It stretched out and out and out, and no building or hill or tree-line blocked any of it. 

He’d seen stars before. Lots of stars, even. But from this rooftop where he sat with Clark, he could see the whole galaxy. The _universe_.

“It’s so big. It’s just hard to believe it’s all _real_.”

“It’s _real,_ all right.” Clark’s voice was warm, calm, as if the _realness_ of it all gave everything else meaning. It probably did, for him. How often had he sat here, leaning back just as he did now, thoughts lost in the sky? Had he done it before he even knew that he had come from the stars? Clark spoke again: “It helps to feel a little small, sometimes, I think.”

There was a story Alfred had told him once, that Roman generals parading after victory would have a slave whispering in their ear: _remember, you are mortal_. It had to be so easy for Clark to forget, surrounded by humans, that he was small and mortal, too. But he’d come from a planet, with its own sun, and people who lived and died just like humans did.

“Your sun… can we see it from here?”

“ _My_ sun? No, you can’t see it.” Clark suddenly dropped his far-off gaze and grinned. “That’s why it’s _night_ right now. You see, the Earth’s _rotation_ —”

“ _Ugh!_ You know what I _mean_.” Dick ignored Clark’s amused chuckles and kicked a Leg of Steel. “ _Krypton’s_ sun. The red one.”

Clark leaned on one arm, lined his eyes near Dick’s, and pointed far off to one side, over a small part of the landscape that was interrupted with a silo instead of flat fields. 

“There’s a constellation over there, four stars.” He drew a sort of box, but Dick couldn’t make out which stars he meant, exactly. There were too many. “And Rao…” He pointed to the middle of the box. “…Is right there.”

“Rao? Isn’t that the name of Krypton’s god?”

“Yeah.” Clark righted himself and bent his knees, leaning back again. “There were other gods, but that’s the one they worshipped.”

Dick found himself imitating Clark’s posture. “Did you learn about that from your Fortress?”

Clark nodded.

How weird it must have been for Clark, hardly older than Dick was now, to find out about a whole other world that he’d come from. Dick shivered thinking about it. At the same time, he sort of envied Clark’s ability to go talk to an artificial-intelligence copy of his father. Dick would have given so much to hear his own father sing again, or to hear his mom tell one of her favorite stories.

“Are there stories about Rao?” Dick asked, bringing his arms around to hug his knees.

“Oh, sure. Too many to tell in one night. There’s the story of how Rao kindled the red sun and brought life to Krypton. Or there’s the legend of how Cythonna, a terrible goddess, fought a huge war and was exiled into the land of ice. Or—”

“What’s your _favorite_ story?”

“ _My_ favorite,” Clark said, “is actually about two children of Rao, two great dragon-like creatures. Their names would translate to something like… Hm. Nightwing and Flamebird.”

Pride surged through Dick’s heart: the figures in such a big legend, Superman’s _favorite_ , had bird names, sort of like him. And flames… well, that wasn’t all too different from Robin’s red and yellow. “Was Flamebird the _coolest_?”

Clark laughed. “Depends how you define _cool_. Flamebird was a force of destruction, incinerating everything, all of Rao’s creations, even Nightwing. Even herself.”

“ _Yeesh_ ,” said Dick. “You didn’t say she was the _bad_ guy.”

“No, no. Flamebird wasn’t _evil_ ,” Clark explained. “The story is that Rao, the Light-Giver, _designed_ Flamebird to be that way, to set everything ablaze. Her fire, like Rao’s, gave heat and light, even as it burned away the old remnants of what had come before. So she burned more and more, and the fire grew and grew. But eventually, there was nothing left to fuel the fire. The flames dwindled to embers, and embers to ashes.

“And then,” he continued, “once everything had gone cold and still and dim, Nightwing rose up, reborn from the darkness. He created himself anew, stretched his black wings across the world, and then made new creations, rebuilding everything that Flamebird had destroyed: the towering spires and yawning chasms, the lush berry-bushes and crawling creatures, and finally, Flamebird herself. And after a generation, the cycle would begin again: the fire, the ash, the darkness, the new life. See, without that destruction, there would be no room for new creation.” 

“Hm,” Dick grunted, unsure what to make of the moral of the story. He’d seen too much destruction as of late. In his time with Batman, he had heard too many agents of chaos justify themselves with logic like that, pretending that mass violence would be good in some kind of cosmic long run. Clark was _better_ than that. Dick bit his lip and pressed the question: “Isn’t that a little… I don’t know… _dark_?”

“You think?” Clark looked at him, eyes gleaming blue even in the night. “I always saw it as a story of _hope_. It’s not too different from what we do here: every spring, if the weather’s right, all these fields get set on fire. The dead stubble from the winter is burned into rich ash, and then we can grow new crops, get a good field like this one. I think on Krypton they pictured Flamebird more like a volcano, but the principle’s the same.” 

Clark turned his attention back to the stars. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice softer, “things end. Their time has come, and it’s just part of the way of the world. Sometimes there are things that even the most powerful hero can’t save. And _sometimes_ there are things that _need_ to end—Ma and Pa told stories like that, too, like Noah and the Flood. But even then, even after the _worst_ destruction, we start over. Even in the darkest darkness, we find our way, and we keep going. We rise up from the ashes of what was lost, and we make something new. And because of that, nothing really ends forever—the end of one story is always the beginning of the next. The fire, the ash, the darkness, the new life.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Dick whispered. He looked out into the vast expanse, where there had once been a thriving planet full of people who told this story, full of people like Clark. Like _Kal-El_. _Once_. _Before_. No wonder the story was a comfort to him.

_Something things end_. _Their time has come_.

But the end of Krypton had been the beginning of Superman.

And was Dick’s own story any different? He wouldn’t have been here at all if not for that horrible fall, if not for the blood-stained dust. And Bruce would never had been Batman, either, without those shots in the alley. He wished Bruce were there with them, to see the stars, to hear the story. Of course, Dick and Bruce had lost everything to cruelty, not to some divine pattern. But then, they had each made their own choices to end their old stories. Dick had said goodbye to his old life and chosen this one. That was a kind of destruction, too, in a way. And then he’d become Robin. _Rising up, reborn from the darkness._

“Maybe we’re all a little bit like Nightwing,” he said, resting his suddenly-weary head onto Clark’s shoulder. “You, and me, and Bruce.” 

“Yeah,” said Clark. “Yeah, I like to think we are.”

 

* * *

 

**SUNDAY**

Dick’s second day was much like his first, rising early to feed the animals and help Pa with the morning chores. They didn’t go to the grain elevator again, but instead took their time going through each chore, as Pa Kent prompted more and more knowledge from Dick from their walkthrough the day before. It was sort of like being back in the Batcave, taking in heaps of new information while an expert talked through his steps and thoughts. Like Bruce, Pa Kent would stop every so often and prompt Dick to provide a fact he’d learned the day before.

“Tomorrow,” Pa Kent said, “you can to lead us through the chores.”

It was good to feel useful. Maybe Robin was benched, but Dick was still busy helping and learning: how to feed and milk cows, how to gather eggs from a coop, how to tell if wheat was looking ripe. They walked through the cornfields, checking for pests, and then through the fallow fields, discussing the importance of rotating crops and keeping nutrients in the soil.

Pa Kent took such pride in what he did that Dick found himself caught up in it. Not that he was about to move away from Gotham and become a farmer, but maybe he could make this a regular thing, coming out to help the Kents.

“There’s no other job like it,” Pa Kent said. “You plant in an empty field, help it grow. You can see it, right before your eyes. And then when you harvest, it goes to feed people. That toast you had for breakfast—it came from a field like this, first. And it’s not just America that we feed, you know. It’s the whole world.”

It was a pretty picture, but something didn’t sit right. 

“Not everyone has food, though,” Dick noted. He’d been to too many soup kitchen volunteering days and charity galas about food insecurity to think otherwise—not to mention some of the people he’d run into as Robin—and that was just in Gotham. “Some people go hungry.”

Pa Kent nodded gravely. “And some people waste what they have. This world’s got a lot of cracks in it. But if we each do our part, maybe we can mend it up, some.”

“Like Bruce’s foundation,” Dick said. “They have a whole bunch of people trying to figure out how to end hunger.”

“Well, the way I see it, we got enough food for the people in the world, and somebody just needs to make sure it gets to people.”

“What if they can’t afford it?”

Pa Kent shrugged. “No one deserves to go hungry.”

“So…” Dick furrowed his brow. “How would you do that without just giving it away for free?”

“Seems to me that that’s why we have a government. To make all that work out, to help the common good. That’s what the Pilgrims did, y’know, back in the days of the first Thanksgiving. Made sure every settler got the grain they needed, fair and square. They wouldn’t just let a neighbor go hungry. Don’t see why we should now.”

“You can’t always trust the government,” Dick noted, trying his best not to sound argumentative. He wanted to agree. But in Gotham, the government would probably just steal it all and let the mob sell it on the black market. “What if the Wayne Foundation just did it? I mean, maybe the government should, but they aren’t, so what if _we_ could buy all the wheat ourselves, from farmers like you. And then give it to anyone who needs it. Maybe it’d cost a lot, but I’ve seen Bruce raise like fifty _million_ dollars in a night. He could do it.”

“Maybe so. I don’t know if I trust East Coast CEOs any more’n a government.”

Dick bit his lip, trying not to take offense. “But you trust _Bruce_ ,” he said.

“Sure,” Pa Kent said. “But companies change hands, and I don’t get a vote on who takes over for Bruce when he’s done running things.”

He was right: Pa Kent didn’t get a vote, or any kind of say. Bruce’s will did. Dick’s stomach turned, thinking of it the fight he’d had over it. He stood by what he’d said. He didn’t want to inherit anything. But it did make sense why Bruce would want to make sure someone good was there to follow him.

Dick turned the conversation back to corn, avoiding any more thought about that. They talked for a while about misconceptions about corn subsidies and the differences between corn harvest and wheat harvest, until Pa Kent cut himself off and pointed ahead, past the corn field.

“Right over yonder’s where we found him. You can still walk down to the crater his rocket made.”

Dick stopped in his tracks. “Where you found Clark?”

Pa nodded.

Dick _knew_ that Clark, Superman, _Kal-El_ , was an alien. But Clark was so human, too, in the way he talked and joked, in his conversations with his parents, that it made Dick’s head spin to face the reality of it. Not a metahuman, but an actual _alien_. An alien who had crashed to earth from somewhere out in space.

“Were you scared?” he asked. “Taking home an alien baby?”

Pa Kent chuckled. “Heck yes. But we’d wanted to be parents for so long…”

“Why didn’t you adopt a kid here?” Dick bit his lip as soon as the words had escaped. He hadn’t meant it to sound so judgmental. Something about Pa Kent set him at ease, but that didn’t entitle him to say whatever he wanted.

Thankfully, Pa Kent didn’t seem too sensitive. He just raised his eyebrows and said, “We _were_ thinking about it. But then there was that baby, in his pod. And Martha was beside herself with excitement. She said it was fated. An answer to our prayers. And I… well. I couldn’t bear to think what might have happened to him if we’d’ve just called up the police and reported a downed UFO with a little ET inside.” He frowned. “He needed a family, not a lab. He wasn’t as strong then as he is now.”

“You saved him.”

“I guess so.” Pa Kent grinned. “Well, he’s paid us back in spades.” 

“Was…” Dick considered his question. “Was it hard? Keeping all that secret?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Pa Kent said, leading them into the henhouse. “But I tell you what, a man’ll do whatever it takes to keep his kid safe. And I always made sure he understood why. Knew we weren’t ashamed of his powers or anything like it. That made it easier.”

“Be nice if Bruce would do that. Explain his _why_. He just says stuff like, _figure it out_.”

Pa Kent gathered eggs intently, and then broke the silence again. “I expect he just thinks you’re sharp enough to track with him.”

That _was_ probably true, but it didn’t make it easier. Sometimes Bruce made no sense, and sometimes Dick was too tired to jump into all the higher-level psychology needed to sort out his actions.

As he gathered his own share of eggs, Dick replayed yesterday’s conversation at the grain elevator, talking about Clark’s teenage years. Bruce would have predicted that Dick would ask those questions, wouldn’t he? It added up: Dick’s curiosity about Clark, plus his empathy… multiply that by the Kents’ sincerity and goodness, and you had a perfect recipe for putting Dick in the shoes of a parent doing _whatever it takes_. And it was like Bruce had said—he wasn’t Dick’s father, but Dick was the closest thing he had to a son.

“Mister Kent, sir?”

“Hm?”

“Can I—um, _may_ I use your phone? I realized something I need to tell Bruce.”

Pa Kent squinted over at him. “Finish that row and then go on.”

“Thanks!”

He flew inside to the kitchen, where Ma Kent was busy cooking down strawberries into jam.

“What’s the emergency?”

“Um, I just—I need to call Bruce,” he explained. “I won’t make it a long call, I promise.”

Ma Kent smiled. “Take what time you need,” she said. “You can stretch the cord to the dining room if you’d like some privacy.”

Dick picked up the receiver and dialed the number that Bruce had left for him. Now, he just had to hope Bruce would actually answer. The phone rang. And rang. And then went to a default voicemail message. Dick hung up, with a sigh.

“Everything all right, Dick?”

“Yeah.” Dick slumped over to Ma Kent. “Um. Can I help in here? In case he calls back?”

“Sure thing, dear. Here, you stir this,” she said, setting him up over the huge ceramic pot. “I should start on supper, anyway. We’re having company.”

“Company?”

Ma Kent nodded. “Friend of Bruce and Clark’s,” she said with a wink. 

A Leaguer, then. Probably Diana, he figured, stirring. She was the only one other than Clark that could be called a _friend_ or knew Bruce’s identity. And like Bruce, she didn’t have her own parents. Or she did, but not in easy reach. Before Dick could confirm, the phone rang.

“Kent residence,” Ma said. “Oh, hi dear. Yeah, Dickie was just trying to call you. Here he is—”

She held out the receiver. “Bruce,” she whispered.

He took it to his ear and nodded in thanks. “Hi, B.”

“Is everything okay? Do you need something? I was going to call in an hour or so.”

Dick smiled at the twinge of concern in Bruce’s voice. “I’m okay,” he assured Bruce. “I just… you told me to figure it out. I think I did.”

“And?”

“You… wanted me to see things from your point of view,” Dick finally said.

This time, there was a good “Hn” in response.

Dick pressed on: “Obedience was wrong because that sounds like I’m following blindly, but that’s not it, is it? You want me to listen to you because I understand where the order is coming from.”

The pieces all fell into place now. Bruce wasn’t just concerned about keeping Dick safe, either. He had expectations. Like the company.

“This is just like the stock project, isn’t it?” Dick asked. “I thought maybe it was me… that I’d gotten worse, or something. And I…” He huffed out air. “I’ve been fighting a lot. I’m sorry. But this isn’t really about that. _I_ haven’t really changed that much. I mean, maybe some, but not that much. But your standards have. You want to make sure I can think like you so that…” Dick slid down onto the chair by the phone, stretching the coiled cord and then wrapping it around his forearm again. “So that I can protect Gotham if you can’t. So that I can lead.”

Dick held his breath. Maybe he’d been too presumptuous. 

“Yes,” Bruce said.

He sighed with relief, only his relief at being right was quickly replaced by discomfort at being right. It was off-putting, really, to train to _become_ Bruce. It wasn’t exactly what he’d signed up for… but they could talk that out another day.

“Given that,” Bruce continued, “can you now understand my response about the Flash situation?”

The Flash situation. Dick had nearly forgotten about all of that, between his punishment, the surprise, the chores on the farm. “I…” Why _had_ Bruce been so resistant to Kid Flash? “No. I don’t understand.”

“Figure it out.” Just like before. Only this time, Bruce added, “I trust that you can. And if you do, we can talk about letting you go back to Gotham earlier than planned.”

_Gotham._ Dick never thought he’d miss it so much, but he was ready to be back again, to hear the sirens of the city, to feel the life buzzing everywhere, to smell the salt coming off the harbor. “Okay! I’ll figure it out.”

“I’m sure you will. Listen, Dick, I’m going undercover for a few days, so if you need something, email. Don’t call.”

“Okay. Um. Bruce?”

“Yes?”

Dick’s words stuck in his throat: _I miss you. I love you_. However much he missed Bruce, it was Bruce’s doing that he was here. But then, _here_ had been a good thing. And maybe Bruce had known that all along. “Be safe out there?”

“I will.”

“Okay. G’night, Bruce.”

Dick excused himself and wasted no time turning on the Kent’s boxy old computer while brainstorming what might make Bruce hesitant about the boy speedster. Really, it wasn’t all that hard to put himself in Bruce’s shoes and spit out twenty paranoid reasons to keep away. 

But Bruce would want something that showed thought. Showed _Bruce_ ’s thoughts. So Dick took a deep breath and started over:

_1\. He is untrained, with no relevant prior experience, but highly visible and therefore a prime target for villains in search of a way to manipulate the Flash. This dangerous combination means there is a high chance he is killed within the year_.

It was a little unsettling how easy it was to think like Bruce when he tried. He moved on to his next point, and the next; soon, he had a list of five reasons that seemed convincing enough. He went back and edited them, but they were still thin. Bruce would want more thorough explanation. Evidence.

“Dick!” Ma Kent’s voice came up the stairs. “Company’s arrived!”

Drat. Dick bit his lip. He didn’t want to leave information on a League member and his sidekick, much less such negative information, on an unsecured computer like this. He pressed the key commands to print, waited for it to begin, and then deleted his words. For good measure, he deleted the file and the hidden backups, too. He folded the print-out to save for later and then peeked out the window to see the guests pulling up the driveway.

A boy Dick’s age was outside and stretching his legs as soon as the car had turned off. That didn’t seem right. Why would Diana have brought a _boy_ along? Unless it wasn’t a boy, and just a tall gangly girl in cargo shorts. But then a man got out from the driver’s side, and Dick’s heart stopped.

He threw the blinds shut and turned his back to the window, breathing heavily. 

The man downstairs was Barry Allen. The Flash.

Which meant the boy was the very one that had been at the center of this entire fiasco. 

Kid Flash was in Smallville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WALLY. get hype y'all


	6. Hospitality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here's where I have to say that I played fast and loose with canon continuity on Wally's side of this story, but hey, no worse than what DC has done! If you want details, I've put those in end notes. Otherwise, just enjoy!

 

  **SUNDAY EVENING**  

_The man downstairs was Barry Allen.The Flash. Which meant the boy was the very one that had been at the center of this entire fiasco._

_Kid Flash was in Smallville._

 

“Oh no.” Dick’s stomach flipped with his heart. “No, no, no.”

It _couldn’t_ be them, but it was. And if he were honest with himself, he’d known the minute Wally had stepped out of the car, but he couldn’t believe the Kents would actually invite the Flashes here.

Dick couldn’t have dinner with them. Concerns about the sidekick aside, how was he going to explain being here? Bruce Wayne’s ward, in Kansas, at Superman’s parents’ house. And even if he did, then what? It was almost certain that big and little Flash were were coming here, of all places, with the expectation that they’d be safe to be themselves. To be open about their powers. Circus orphan Dick Grayson would mess that up, big time.

Better he just bow out. He climbed into bed and rubbed his eyes, working to turn them red.

“Dick?” Ma Kent’s voice came at his door, knocking. “The guests are here.”

“I’m sick,” he called out.

Ma Kent pushed open the door and looked down at him, hands on her hips. “You weren’t sick an hour ago.”

He demonstrated with a feeble cough. “Am now.”

She stepped forward, and he held a hand up. “No,” he croaked. “You’ll catch it.”

“Catch what? A case of the dramatics?” She sat down at the edge of his bed and held a seasoned hand to his forehead. “No fever. You avoiding Mister Allen?”

Dick grimaced. “Missus Kent, you… you know who he _is_ , right?”

“He says he’s the Flash. Friend of Clark’s?”

“He doesn’t—” Dick lowered his voice to a hush. “He doesn’t know who I am. _Secret identity._ ”

“I know, dear. You don’t have to tell them anything at all. Barry just needs a chance to talk with us, and I thought you’d like to see a boy your age.”

“I _would_.” The guilt started to broil up. “But I’m not supposed to see him. Bruce and I got in a big fight over it. That’s _why_ I’m grounded.”

“Gotcha. Bruce didn’t tell us that part.” Ma Kent cupped her chin in her palm and wrinkled her brow in thought. “Well, I’ll tell Bruce it was my fault. What’s he going to do? Yell at an old lady? _How dare you, Martha_ ,” she added, in a low brusque Bruce-ish voice.

Dick dared a smile. She was crafty, for a wholesome farmer’s wife. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Now, no one has to know you’re— _you know_. You can just be Dick, our family friend.”

It did seem painfully simple, put like that. She reached out her hand for him to take, but he hesitated, hovering his own in above hers. “But Barry’s not the one who needs the most help.”

“Sorry?”

“Kid Flash—the nephew—he needs help as much as Flash does. If I’m just _Dick_ , I can’t help him. I know Bruce wants me to hang back for my own good or whatever, but I can’t. Not with him here. I have to do _something_. And that means I have to be _Robin_. Even if that means I don’t get to be me, or I get in trouble with Bruce. It’s the right thing to do.”

A warm smile pulled across Ma Kent’s face, and she brushed his cheek with a tender sigh.

“M—Missus Kent? You okay?”

“I sure am,” she said, snapping back to her busy can-do mode. “As long as you aren’t going to dinner in your costume—I _do_ require pants at the table.”

His costume. Dick hadn’t thought that far through. He probably wasn’t supposed to even have it there, but he’d brought it anyway. In case of emergencies, he’d told himself. “I guess I could just put my mask on…”

“Is that all there is to the disguise? The mask?”

Dick shrugged. “I mean. Yeah. The costume throws people off, but…” When she said it like that, it seemed like not much of a disguise at all. But the mask helped. It made him look younger, for one. Most people thought Robin was only a kid, not a teenager.

Without a word, Ma Kent got up and pulled open a bureau drawer. She rummaged through it and emerged with a pair of _very_ outdated large-lensed sunglasses. The lens were completely opaque, basically reflective. “Try these.”

He did and laughed. “Yeah, that’s less weird than the mask, I guess.”

“Now, those alligator shirts of yours will draw attention, I’d think. Those don’t come cheap.”

“Alligator shirts?” Dick leaned over and looked in the mirror at his layered polos, yellow and blue. He dropped his gaze to the little green crocodile on his chest. _Lacoste_ , she’d meant. Not that he really cared. He just opened his dresser drawers and there they were—always replenished when he’d outgrown the last ones, always in a range of colors that he liked to mix and match. At school, they were the norm, but they probably did peg him as the kind of kid that lived in a _manor_. Especially with the collars popped.

Ma Kent pulled down a box labelled _CLARK, 5TH GRADE_. Dick opened his mouth to note that he was certainly _not_  in fifth grade or anything _like_ it, but anything that had fit 13-year-old Clark would drown 13-year-old Dick. She tossed him a deep-red sweatshirt emblazoned with a bright yellow bird across the chest. Other than the accompanying words _CAW CAW CROWS_ , it was about as close as perfect of a pick for a makeshift Robin outfit as he could’ve hoped for. Embarrassingly, Clark’s fifth-grade sweatshirt fit Dick just about perfectly. The sunglasses fell to the floor as he put on the sweatshirt, but he grabbed them and tucked them into the hoodie pocket.

“Come.”

He did, trailing her into the master bedroom and sitting down on a stool in front of a mirror.

“Show me how you do your hair, for school and parties and the like.”

Dick looked up at her in the reflection of the mirror skeptically, but she was waiting, holding a comb out to him. She was serious. He did his part and swept his hair back in its usual fashion, which his day on the farm had left disheveled.

“And what do you do with it as Robin?”

He looked up at her with an even more confused expression. He didn’t really _do_ anything. He shook his hair back out, shuffling his fingers through it, while moving his bangs out of his face, though two locks still curled around his forehead.

“Ah.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a small bottle of something that she pumped into her hands. She ran her fingers through his hair, massaging the product through it and delicately arranging his cowlicks to look naturally windswept. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this, sitting in front of a mirror, motherly hands fixing him before an audience. A tightness grabbed his chest, but he breathed through it.

“Like that?”

“Yeah,” he said, impressed with how close she had approximated his sweaty-windswept-patrol look so closely. “Perfect.”

He reached into his kangaroo pocket and pulled out the mirrored shades and put them on. “Ha!” he burst out. “Just some glasses and messy hair and I’m in costume? I’m like a reverse Superman!”

“All right, Reverse Superman, get yourself down to supper.”

He grinned. “Thanks, Ma K—er, Missus Kent.”

She smiled sweetly and fixed his hair a last time. “You’re welcome, dear. And _Ma_ ’s just fine.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

Dick let her take the stairs first, and it was a good thing, too, as she grabbed Pa Kent’s arm and firmly said, “ _Robin_ is on his way down, dear.”

“Rob—?” Pa Kent cut himself off as he spotted Dick in the sweatshirt and glasses. He gave a nod of understanding and then turned his attention to Barry Allen. “You know Robin already, I hear?”

“We’re acquainted.” Barry waved up to Dick and then called into the living room, “Wally, get in here and meet Robin!”

A blur of orange emerged into the main hall and settled into the image of a red-haired teenage boy, stuffing his face with cheese and crackers.

“Ohmygod, you’re _Robin,_ ” he said, green eyes suddenly wide. “Like for _real_.”

“The one and only.” Dick reached out a hand to shake. Wally had a good four inches on him, as well as a year in age, if Dick’s research had been true, but he seemed no older than Dick, if not younger. Maybe it was the middle-America thing. Gothamites grew up faster. “Nice to meetcha—Wally, is it?”

“Yeah! I’m Wally. Or, uh. Kid Flash. That’s what the papers are calling me, at least.”

“They called you that _once_ ,” Barry clarified.

“What’s with the get-up?” Wally asked, pointing at his sunglasses.

“Sorry. Batman’s pretty serious about the secret identity business.”

“But I thought…” Wally looked up at Barry in confusion. “You said Justice Leaguers shared their identities, didn’t you?”

Barry scoffed. “Yeah, all but _one_.”

“Hey, he has reasons! He’s the only non-meta,” Dick said, taking up Batman’s defense. It was almost automatic. He’d just put himself in Bruce’s head to write his list. And Barry’s words— _all but one_ —grated on him. Bruce wasn’t just _one_ hero: knowing Bruce’s identity meant knowing _Dick’s_ identity. Bruce was private, closed-off for plenty of reasons, but it had hit Dick while writing that being _protective_ was probably one of them. He found himself glancing over at the telephone, as if it might suddenly ring and he could tell Bruce that he _understood_. “And he’s the only one with a partner.”

“He _was_ ,” Wally corrected.

“We’re not _partners_ ,” Barry said, correcting the correction.

“Not yet.”

“Robin,” Ma Kent interrupted, “why don’t you grab yourself and Wally a couple of pops and show him around the farm?”

Translation: _get Wally out of here so the adults can talk about the problems Wally’s new powers created._

“Good idea, Ma!” He threw an arm around Wally’s shoulder as if they were old friends and guided him to the kitchen. “This way.”

Once they were in the kitchen, Wally shook off Dick’s arm. “You call her _Ma_? Flash doesn’t know your name but Superman’s mom is _Ma_?”

Dick shrugged without explanation and opened the fridge, pulling out two glass bottles. “You like Soder Cola?”

“Who doesn’t?”

The inner door to the back porch was already open, letting a breeze through, so Dick pushed the swinging screen door out with his toe and let Wally through. He stayed in the doorway himself and popped off the one of the bottle caps on the metal strike plate in the frame.

“Whoa, how did you—” Wally cut off his question as Dick repeated the motion and handed him one. “Thanks.”

“So,” said Dick, vaulting onto the porch railing. “Batman heard you gave yourself powers.”

“Batman heard wrong. I just asked Flash to show me how it happened to him, and lightning struck. Just like the first time. Pretty wild, huh?”

“ _Wild_.” Dick took a swig of his soda and set it down on the railing next to him. “You know how many rogues I know that would _literally_ kill to do what you did?”

“I _told_ you,” said Wally, furrowing his brow. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Uh- _huh_.” Dick leaned his arms on the rail and swung his legs back and forth as he sized up the other sidekick. “You were just a huge Flash fan who asked him to show you _exactly_ what had happened to give him powers, on a day that _just so happened_ to have a lightning storm. Coincidence is rarely the simplest explanation.”

“I don’t know if it was coincidence. But it wasn’t me. Have… you ever felt like something is _meant_ to happen?”

Wally squinted at him as the setting sun cast everything in its warm glow.

“I don’t think so,” said Dick, dropping his gaze to the wooden planks of the porch. There was no way to see everything he’d seen and think it was all meant to be. The run-down public school in the Narrows wasn’t _meant_ to burn down last month. Those girls weren’t _meant_ to be kidnapped by the Mad Hatter. His parents weren’t _meant_ to be killed. “I think things just happen like they happen, and we find the good pieces and use them to sort of make sense of it all.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Wally’s bright yellow sneakers—worn thin, despite the style being one that kids had lined up to buy only two months ago—padded out a rhythm as he paced back and forth on the deck.

Dick lifted his eyes to see Wally run a hand through his hair, mussing the waves of red as the sunlight glinted off them. It was funny, calling hair like that _red._ It wasn’t, really—not that true _red_ was really a natural color at all. But Wally’s hair was more orange than red. What else was that color? It wasn’t like copper, like the commissioner’s daughter’s, or cinnamon and cherry-wood, like Raya’s. Through the dark shades of the sunglasses and the warm evening light, it was hard to say.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” he was saying. “But there’s something _more_. It’s not just being fast. Like, Superman, he just moves really fast, right? But when he’s not moving, he doesn’t _feel_ it. I think? But I do. Like some kind of force.”

“So you’re a _Jedi_?”

Wally rolled his eyes. “Not _The Force_. Ugh, it sounds so stupid. More like… physics we don’t understand yet. It’s like I was a rod for the lightning. And it feels the lightning just _stayed_. It’s still here,” he said, flexing and unflexing his hand, like the lightning was stuck inside.

“Like potential energy,” Dick supplied.

Wally nodded. “A little more like electromagnetic energy, but… yeah. Sure.”

“How fast can you go?”

That kicked Wally out of his mood. He grinned and blurred away, reappearing on the other side of the porch, down by the fields. “Wanna see?”

Dick _did_ , but he hesitated. Wally’s powers were still new, and Bruce’s voice was still in his head. There could be side-effects or risks to his powers. “I dunno. What if it’s dangerous?”

“Pfft! Barry’s been running me through all kinds of tests. Here, watch.”

And then he was gone, leaving only a crackling streak behind as he disappeared into the fields. A second later, he was shouting and waving, a dot in the distance. And then a blur wove through the fields again, looping around and around and then right back in front of Dick.

“So,” he said, leaning on the post with his lanky arms like it was no big deal. “What d’ya think?”

Dick _thought_ it was incredible, though he’d seen lots of incredible things. In truth, he was more interested in learning about Wally’s story than his powers. But Wally was clearly dying to show off. Dick could understand that.

“Pretty sweet,” he said, bringing the soda to his lips again.

“Jealous?”

“Nope.” The fact was that some people had superpowers, and Dick was not _some people_. That was fine.

“Liar.”

“You think I hang around Superman on the regular and I’m jealous of _you_? No offense, but—”

“Okay, yeah. But if someone showed up right now and was like, hey, you want superspeed? You’d take it.”

Dick scrunched his nose. “That sounds _really_ shady. Who’s showing up offering powers?”

“I don’t know, man. Some guy.”

“Definitely not, then. Could be magic.”

Wally rolled his eyes. “There’s no such thing as _magic_.”

“One: _yes_ there is,” he said, counting on his fingers. “Two: I don’t have the metagene, so my body probably couldn’t absorb powers properly. Three: powers always come with a catch.”

“No catch!”

“There’s _always_ a catch. Green Lantern has to follow orders of some weird space guys and literally recharge his powers regularly. Superman has Kryptonite.”

“Flash doesn’t have anything like that,” said Wally, standing proud.

Dick chuckled. He and Bruce had been over this lesson countless times. “Everyone has _something_. Even your uncle.”

“He’s not _actually_ my uncle, you know. He and my aunt are just engaged.”

Dick shrugged. “Sounds like you don’t even know _how_ you guys can do what you do. Which means you probably just don’t know what the catch _is_ , yet. I mean, who knows, maybe using superspeed siphons off power from something else, or accelerates your aging, or something.”

Wally’s face fell. “Wow,” he said, hopping up on the porch rail next to Dick. “Cheerful thought.”

“Sorry. Force of habit. It’s probably fine.” Dick turned himself, leaning his back against the post and resting his feet on the rail. “Still—I’d keep looking, if I were you. Better you know your weaknesses before they surprise you.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Wally sighed, a shaky kind of sigh of someone out of fuel. Even so, he jumped back down off the rail and started to pace again. “But you’re slow. That’s _your_ catch.”

Dick laughed, loud and clear. “You know what Batman and I spend half our time doing?”

“Wishing you weren’t in Gotham City?”

The words tightened strangely on Dick’s heart. He bit back the defensive words that danced on the tip of his tongue— _have you ever even_ been _to Gotham?_ —and said, “We sit. We watch. We wait.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Superspeed would probably make it feel even more boring than it is.”

“Geez, yeah. I’m bored just _thinking_ about that.” Wally shook his legs out impatiently. “Hey—do you think food’s ready soon?”

“I’d give it twenty-nine seconds.”

“ _Twenty-nine_? You sure you don’t have powers? Some kind of time superpower?”

“Uh, sure: the power of having the kitchen timer in my sightline.” Dick pointed through the window to the flashing red light over the oven. _Twelve_ , it flashed. _Eleven_.

“Maybe we should go in,” said Wally. “Get a head start.”

_Seven. Six._

“No,” said Dick. “We shouldn’t interrupt them.”

“But—”

The alarm shrieked through the house, and Ma Kent rushed into the kitchen.

“Okay, c’mon,” said Dick.

Wally didn’t need telling twice. He slipped ahead of Dick and into the kitchen, but Ma Kent wasn’t serving any food. She was staring at the television.

_TORNADO STORMS INTENSIFY - FARMING TOWNS UNDER ATTACK -_

“Jonathan, Barry!” she called. “Come quickly!”

Barry did just that, crackling into the room with the smell of ozone and then jutting out his heel to brake. “My God, again?”

“They’re saying twelve of ‘em. Right in the middle of harvest, too.”

“Isn’t tornado season over?” Dick asked.

Pa shook his head. “Not <i>over</i>, but not usually so many, not this late.”

“I hate to run on you,” Barry said, “but—”

“We’re used to it,” said Ma Kent. “Go on.”

“Nice to meet you guys!” said Wally, jumping up and zooming to the door.

Barry looked wide-eyed at the Kents. “No,” he said, half-turning.

“Aw, come on! I helped before! I can—”

“You don’t know what you’re doing yet, and—”

“And that’s why Flash brought you here,” Dick blurted out, before the back-and-forth could escalate. He knew the routine well enough, and he was confident that Barry’s excuses weren’t going to be nearly as good as Bruce’s. So maybe this plan sort of imposed on the Kents. And maybe Bruce didn’t want him hanging out with Kid Flash. But Dick had been in Wally’s situation enough times to know he’d need something appealing to let him give up the fight. “To train.”

“I’m staying here?”

Pa Kent picked up quickly enough. “Course you are,” he said. “You can train, and we can use the extra pair of hands.”

“Yeah, exactly,” said Dick.

Wally inched away from the door toward Dick. “I’m supposed to _train_? With… _you_?”

“Well, sure,” said Dick. “Didn’t you wonder why I’m here? Well.” He held out his arms as if that answered that.

 _Technically_ he hadn’t told a lie, but only in the really shady way where his words were strung together in a deliberately misleading way. He didn’t like it, but he’d worry about the repercussions later. He avoided eye contact with the Kents. Hopefully they weren’t ashamed. Hopefully they didn’t hate him for adding an extra guest.

Wally looked up at Barry for some sort of confirmation, and Barry just shrugged back. “Better than you going bored outta your skull while Iris and I work, isn’t it?”

“Guess so,” Wally said.

“We’ll see you Friday, Barry,” Ma Kent supplied.

So much for having a place to be himself. It had been nice, while it lasted, but this was the right thing to do. Bruce always said that the right thing and the easy thing weren’t often the same.

“All right, well. That’s settled, then. I’ll pick you up Friday, Wall-man. Bye!”

A gust of air whipped through the house as the door swung open and shut, and then a _boom_ rang across the fields. The Flash was long gone.

Wally stared back and forth at the Kents and Dick.

“Well,” said Ma Kent, “Casserole’s still warm. You hungry, Wally?”

Wally’s eyes opened wide as the Kents’ dinner plates.

Dick laughed. “I’d wager a yes on that, Ma. We’ll help serve.”

“Wonderful. How about one of you plates this and the other sets the table?”

“Setting!” said Wally, who breezed through every cabinet to find the glasses and utensils and was already speeding to the dining room.

Immediately, Ma Kent left her casserole dish on the trivet and stretched an arm across the doorway. Wally stopped short on the way back from the dining room, almost falling back over himself.

“No superspeed for chores,” she said.

“Wha-a-at?”

“House rules. Long as you’re here, you don’t use powers unless you’re training with them.”

Dick laughed as he cut the bake and tried to plate it like Alfred would, a neatly-cut section in the middle of a clean, white plate. Instead, it sort of flopped over and collapsed across the plate, but it looked delicious anyway. He handed two to Wally with a smirk. “Tough break, Kid.”

“You did that on _purpose_ ,” Wally hissed.

“Did _what_?”

Dick grinned. It was going to be a good week—at least, as long as he didn’t think about what it would cost him when Bruce found out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who care: Post-Crisis Wally gets his powers at age 10, spends that summer training with Flash, but doesn't find out he's Barry until the next summer. That timeline is even more extended in the Pre-Crisis Silver Age Comics. And then, of course, there's the YJ timeline, which has Wally getting his powers at age 13-14. I went with that age to make him more of Dick's peer (as they seem to be in New Teen Titans and Teen Titans: Year One), and have made him slightly older than Dick (both as a nod to YJ's 2-year age gap and the fact that in Rebirth, Wally is from the pre-Flashpoint world and Dick is de-aged). I have Wally knowing Barry's identity here, partly because Wally is 14, not 10, and therefore more responsible, and because Wally's safety is already compromised by being Kid Flash.
> 
> And while this isn't set in the YJ universe, there are a couple of other nods to Young Justice in this chapter. :)


	7. Fellowship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: the term "gay" used derogatorily as a synonym for "uncool" (though it is not overlooked)

 

**MONDAY MORNING**

The phone felt hot in his hands as he spoke.

“Hi, Bruce. I, um. I want this to come from me, but I—”

“This is about Wally West,” said Bruce, with a voice of gravel rolling through acid. Had Bruce ever sounded this angry?

Dick’s heart raced. “What? How’d you—?”

“You really think I wouldn’t know? You thought you could _trick_ me? Keep this a secret? From _me_?”

“No! I called as soon as—it was never a secret!”

“I have _never_ been so disappointed.”

The phone clicked off, leaving Dick in silence and darkness. Everything went black.

“Bruce!” Dick shook the receiver, but it wasn’t connected, anymore. It wasn’t connected to anything, not even its cord. It was just him and the empty receiver in a pool of darkness and silence. “Bruce, wait!”

 

* * *

 

Dick gasped awake, wrenching off the covers that he’d been hiding under. He blinked in the mid-morning light that cast Clark’s bedroom in a soft glow. There was no phone. It had just been a dream. He should’ve known. Bruce wouldn’t react like that. Not really.

So much for a refreshing nap. He never should’ve taken it anyway, but Pa Kent had been so nice about it, shooing the boys up to relax after breakfast while he ran another sample to the elevator. And Dick had needed it. He _had_ stayed up later than he should’ve, chatting with Wally about working with Flash and school and his summer in Central City with Iris, and then Pa Kent had roused him before dawn for morning chores while letting Wally sleep in. This was, after all, still Dick’s punishment. He had to be grateful he’d been given a nap at all.

He rolled over on the bed and pulled on his sunglasses. Through the tinted lenses, he watched Wally sitting on the floor of the room, working intently on something, some kind of small gadget that Dick couldn’t make out. Tools were cast around his feet, and a screwdriver hung from his mouth as he used both hands to adjust the gadget with pliers. Wally set down the pliers, took the screwdriver, and then pinched his face in concentration as he tightened the screw. He scrunched his nose, licked his lips, and then unscrewed it again before starting the process over.

Dick wanted to ask what it was, but Bruce hated when Dick accidentally interrupted him in the middle of deep concentration, and Wally… well. He wasn’t Bruce. He had no reason to be patient with Dick.

“Take a picture—it’ll last longer,” Wally said, not moving his eyes from his work.

“Huh?”

Wally dropped his project and turned around. “You’re _staring_.”

“Oh, I—I didn’t mean to.” He hadn’t thought Wally had so much as lifted his eyes from his work, but maybe he had, just so quickly that Dick hadn’t noticed. “I was trying to figure out what you’re making.”

“Flash ring, two-point-oh.”

He tossed glinting object up in the air and Dick caught it without moving from his position on the bed. It _was_ a ring, but with a little locket as a sort of compartment.

“What’s it for?”

“The costume, duh.”

Dick blinked in disbelief. “You keep the costume in a _ring_?”

“You got a better place for it?”

He didn’t. He just had a few alternates—in the Batcave, the limo, a hidden compartment of his backpack… “If you’re so fast,” he said, turning the ring over in his hands, “can’t you just… leave the costume somewhere and go get it?”

Wally laughed. “Why would a speedster want to _waste time_?”

“Maybe to avoid wasting time designing a portable tiny costume and a ring.”

“You’re just jealous,” Wally taunted, snatching the ring back.

Okay, maybe _this_ time he was jealous. It didn’t seem fair that the Flash got to change at the speed of sound _and_ have a gadget to make it even faster. A gadget that even Batman didn’t have.

Then again, there was no way Batman’s armor would work like that. But the Robin costume could. It was hardly armored at all—much to Bruce’s constant complaint.

“Does it work?”

Wally was already back to tinkering. “Not yet.”

Dick slid down from the bed and folded himself into a pretzel across from Wally. He tried to inspect the ring, to understand what was happening. He didn’t quite have the patience for such exact work himself, but there was something captivating about watching Wally carefully adjusting each piece, switching out tools, turning the ring over.

“So what’re you _really_ doing here, anyway?” Wally set down the ring and looked up. “I know Batman didn’t send you here to train me. Barry said Batman had nixed that idea.”

“If that’s true, why’d Barry leave you, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Wally said, rolling his eyes. “Probably because it was a good excuse to ditch me.”

Dick narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t say anything.”

“Nah. I do need to get better.” Wally shrugged and stood up, restless again now that he’d stopped working on the ring. “And _you’re_ gonna help me.”

Dick grinned and jumped to his feet. He stepped toward the door, but then Wally was there, blocking it.

“But only _after_ you tell me for real: why aren’t you with Batman?”

“He’s on a trip.”

“Why didn’t you go with?”

“I was supposed to watch Gotham while he was gone.”

Wally cleared his throat. “You aren’t in Gotham.”

“Yeah, I’m _aware_. Batman decided to send me here instead.” Dick sighed, tired of dancing around the actual truth of it: “I’m… um. I’m grounded.”

“ _Grounded_? Wait. Is he—is Batman your _dad_?”

All his training said: _don’t answer that question_. _Any information compromises your identity._

His training’s voice sounded a lot like Batman. He ignored it. “My _dad’s_ dead. So’s my mom. But Batman took me in after. So, sort of.”

“Oh.” Wally swallowed and looked away. Everyone did that, like making eye contact would cause further offense or something.

“It’s fine.” He shrugged. “I mean, it’s not _fine_. But I’m okay. I think about them a lot. It’s not like you brought up some deep dark memory that I’d locked away.”

“What happened?”

“Murdered. That’s why… well.” He gestured to his sunglasses and semi-disguise. “That’s why I do all this.”

“Man. Everyone’s got some sort of tragic backstory except me.”

“ _You’re_ not jealous now—not of _that_ ,” Dick said, half-question, half-command.

“Nah, I mean…” Wally stepped aside from the door and leaned on the lintel, looking down at his toes. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this. I don’t have any secret pain or—”

Dick hooked a right punch into Wally’s cheekbone, and the speedster toppled to the floor.

“What the _hell_ , man?”

“You wanted pain—you got it. Tragic backstory: check.” Dick held out a hand to Wally, who flinched at it. “And there’s your first training lesson, too: always pay attention. Always be prepared.”

“You’re crazy.” Wally squinted up at Dick, but after a second, he took his hand and dragged himself up. “I get your lesson. But don’t _ever_ do that again.”

“Don’t pout about not having dead parents.”

“When you put it like that…” Wally sighed. “Yeah, okay. Deal.”

Dick grinned. “Race you outside?”

“Ha!”

Wally tore off, and the displaced wind swept Dick’s bangs across his forehead. While the blur of a boy disappeared down the stairs, Dick hopped out the window, onto the roof of the back porch. He looked down just in time to see the sparking blur slow into the shape of a gangly red-head.

“Hey, slow-poke!” he shouted down.

“What are you _doing_?” Wally called back up.

“I said _outside_ ,” Dick noted. “I’m outside.”

Wally crossed his arms. “That’s cheating!”

“Is it, though? You inferred wrong. Not my fault.” Dick missed having his grappling line, missed having anything to swing from. But it was an easy drop to soft ground below, far easier than anything in Gotham. He gave himself a running start, leapt off the edge, and pulled into a tight roll on the grass below.

“Hi,” he said, standing and brushing off his clothes. The sunglasses had thankfully only come askew, but not off. He’d have to adjust for that—something he never had to do with his domino mask that affixed right to his face.

“Hey, if training is just a bunch of mind games, I _quit_.”

Dick began to walk, drawing a wide circle around Wally. “ _Fighting crime_ is a bunch of mind games. Lesson two. You gotta think like them. Like the bad guys. Know what makes them tick, know how they operate. Anticipate their next move. If you can’t do that, your speed’s kind of useless.”

“It’s not _useless_.”

“Yeah?” Dick cut into his circle until he was only a few feet from Wally. “Hit me.”

“Hit you?”

“Yeah.” Dick punched the air. “Hit. Use your speed.”

Wally squinted. “O…kay…”

The last syllable had barely stopped ringing when Dick stumbled back from a direct punch to the jaw. “ _Ow_! Not in the _jaw_ , you _asshole_.”

“Payback, bro.”

“That’s fair.” Dick shook off the pain and readied himself. “Chest this time.”

“You want me to hit you _again_?”

He tapped his chest. Wally obliged: before Dick could process any movement, a fist hit exactly where he’d touched.

“Okay, good,” he said, reeling. “Now, once more.”

“You _are_ crazy,” said Wally.

“Like a _fox_ ,” said Dick. He readied his defense. “Do it.”

This time, even before Wally moved into action, Dick reached out for the arm that was coming. It was all a matter of timing. The hit still touched his chest, but by then, Dick had grabbed the fast-moving arm and he used the impact to leverage himself up instead of falling back. In surprise, Wally had slowed down almost to normal speed, which gave Dick the window he needed to swing down a bonus kick toward Wally’s chest. The speedster snapped back into action, evading the maneuver, but letting Dick’s kick hit square under the jaw.

“Oof. Call it even,” mumbled Wally. “Though it wasn’t exactly fair. You knew what was coming.”

“ _Exactly_. I knew what was coming. You hit me the same way, same speed, same arm. Every time. You let me predict your next move, so it didn’t matter what powers you had or didn’t have. Like I said. Lesson two: anticipate your opponent. Lesson three: don’t be predictable enough to let them anticipate you.”

“These lessons seem easier said than done.”

“It’s just practice.” Dick shrugged. “We’ll start easy. I’ll move to attack—you block me. But try to block as soon as you can—as soon as you figure out my move. Okay?”

“Okay.”

It turned out to not be quite _okay_ , because Wally’s idea of blocking an attack was just to sort of throw a limb in the way at random, whatever came first to mind. So they stopped and backtracked further, going over the real basics. Twenty minutes into the overview, Pa Kent’s truck rolled in on the gravel drive.

“C’mon,” Dick said, suddenly abandoning the lesson and running around the house to meet the truck. “Hi, Pa!”

“Hey, Mister Kent!” Wally added.

Pa Kent stepped out onto the driveway and grinned. “Howdy, boys. Guess what?”

“Moisture’s below fourteen?”

“You got it!”

Wally leaned over to Dick. “I take it that’s good?”

“Means it’s time for harvest,” Dick explained.

“That’s right,” Pa Kent confirmed. “I’ll give Clark and Mister Ross a ring while you two help Martha prep for the day. You can’t drive a truck, can you, Wally?”

“I have a permit? I can try!”

Pa grimaced. “That’s all right. Come on in and we’ll sort it out with the missus.”

They found Ma Kent waiting for them with her hands on her hips. “Clark says he can come after he finishes work,” she reported. “Bill Ross’ll help starting tomorrow. So we’re a little short on hands until Clark gets back, but Jonathan can start, and then I can join after I put some food together…”

“Why don’t we cook?” Dick asked.

The Kents looked like he’d spoken Chinese.

“The two of us.” Dick nodded to Wally. “I mean, I don’t know if Wally can cook at all, but Alfie’s taught me some stuff. Wally can be my sous chef.”

“Alfie?” Wally raised a curious eyebrow.

“A friend,” Dick said. He redirected back to the Kents: “Seriously, I won’t burn your house down or anything. I can make some serious sandwiches, and uh, whatever else we need?”

Ma Kent rustled his hair, leaving it even more unkempt. “I had a few things in mind—you’re okay following a recipe?”

“Absolutely.”

 

* * *

 

**MONDAY AFTERNOON**

Lunch was easy enough. Dick had spent many an hour helping Alfred out with sandwiches and snacks for patrol, and it turned out that harvest wasn’t altogether different. Dick and Wally brought out lunch for the Kents and ate with them while they drove the combines, and then headed back in to work on supper for this night and the next.

Supper was a little more complicated.

Dick popped himself onto the counter and read through the two recipe cards. “So we should start the chili, and then while that’s cooking, we can make this pasta salad for tomorrow.”

“If you’d let me use my speed, we could bang this out in like ten minutes and then do something else.”

“No powers,” Dick said. Even if the Kents hadn’t been clear on that, he could still hear the Batman-like warning in his head. Wally’s powers were untested. They didn’t yet know if there was a cost.

Wally just groaned.

“You know, it would probably be easier to read the recipes if you ditched the gay sunglasses.”

“ _Are_ they gay?” Dick arched an eyebrow. “I thought they were more retro _Top-Gun_ than Elton John.”

Wally laughed. “What? No, like. Not _gay_ gay, just— Um—not that there’s anything wrong with that. I mean. Wait, shit. _Are_ you gay? I didn’t mean it in a _bad_ way.”

“Didn’t you?” The retro _Top-Gun_ possibly-gay sunglasses protected Wally from the full extent of the glower that Dick was giving.

“Don’t give me that look! Just ‘cause I’m not from Gotham City doesn’t mean I’m backward or something. Though it would be good to know, uh, if you are.”

“I have a girlfriend,” he answered, once it seemed like Wally was through tripping over his own words. “Though I don’t see why it would _matter_.”

“Matters since we’re sharing a room.” Wally shrugged and opened the fridge, though he didn’t yet have the ingredient list, so he just sort of shifted things around and then turned back to Dick. “Like. Changing and stuff.”

Dick laughed darkly. “Because every gay guy would be checking you out? Yeah, _right_.”

“Okay, first of all: _ouch_. Secondly: I wouldn’t change in front of a girl, and trust me, I _know_ none of them are checking me out.” Wally flashed a self-deprecating smile, and the tension dissolved immediately.

“ _None_ of them?”

“Blue Valley isn’t exactly Gotham City," sighed Wally.  "I’ve been at school with the same handful of people for nine years. And they all remember when I was ten. Turns out that being President of the Flash Fan Club isn’t much of a draw.”

Dick burst into laughter. “Flash _Fan Club_?  You’re joking, right?  Do you have membership cards and t-shirts?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.  I used to be a huge dork.”

“You _used_ to be a huge dork?”

“Hey, I’m not the one who wears a circus get-up.”

“Okay, hold up,” said Dick, brandishing the wooden spoon and sending a spray of beef juice everywhere. “Circuses are _awesome_. And anyway, the costume isn’t a _circus get-up_. It’s based on Robin Hood.”

Wally laughed. “I don’t remember Robin Hood being so colorful.”

“ _Based_ on.” Dick waved the recipe card in the air, and then read from it. “Enough about that. We need ground beef, one onion, one green pepper, two garlic cloves, one can of green beans, two cans of diced tomatoes, two cans of beans, and two ears of corn.”

The ingredients arrived far, far too quickly on the counter. Dick looked up from the card and narrowed his eyes.

“I thought we said no powers?”

“I wasn’t _trying_ to use them or anything. It just happened.”

Well, that was concerning.

“Anyway, _you_ said no powers, and you definitely aren’t in charge of me.”

“The _Kents_ said no powers.”

“They’re not gonna know. You really think Superman would’ve done this at regular speed?” Wally rolled his eyes. “Come on, how do you want these cut?”

Dick handed the card over. “Start with the onions and garlic. You can chop the rest while I start the beef. You do… know how to use a knife, right?”

“Chyeah, of course. I make dinner at home all the time.”

“Okay, just… don’t cut off a finger at superspeed or something.”

Soon, Dick had the onions and garlic ready for the pot, and he turned on the stovetop. By the time the meat began to brown, Wally had finished prepping all the other vegetables, gathered all the necessary spices, and was tapping his fingers impatiently.

“What about in Central City?” Dick asked.

“What?”

“Girls in Central City don’t know you from when you were ten or whatever. And you’re Flash’s sidekick—that’s gotta count for something.”

Wally raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, great—it’ll get me attention just as it takes up any time I’d have to go on dates anyway.

“You can’t be that busy _now_. I mean, you’re here. Barry said he and Iris work all day. “

“You just have to have more confidence!” Dick pointed at the pot. “Bean time.”

Wally flashed a smile as he poured in the beans and other veggies. “I’m _plenty_ confident, okay. I just don’t know if I need _another_ reason to wish I lived in Central City. Being stuck with my parents sucks enough as it is.”

“It could just be a summer fling, right? People do that.” Or so he’d heard. Summer in Gotham meant no school and high crime. The closest he ever came to a summer fling was with Lady Justice.

“Yeah, I guess.” Wally sighed. “How do _you_ have time for a girlfriend, slowpoke?”

Dick grimaced. “I don’t. I have to cancel on her a lot. She thinks I have a job after school.”

“Well, you _do_.”

“Hnh.” Dick leaned back on the counter. “Honestly, I’m pretty sure Jenny’s dumping me as soon as I talk to her again. She left me a not-so-cryptic cryptic message about _needing to talk_ when I get back.”

“ _Ouch_.”

“Yeah. I’ve used up a few too much rain-checks, and this dance last week was kind of my last big chance. And then I got grounded. So, goodbye, social life. Hello, Smallville!”

Wally laughed. “Her loss, man. Other fish in the sea, or something. I mean, you’re in _Gotham City_. There can’t be any shortage of girls there.”

“I guess. But you were right before. I don’t have the time, plus it feels kind of terrible to have to constantly lie. Dating civilians kind of blows.”

Wally folded his arms and leaned against the fridge. “Aunt Iris doesn’t know about Barry.”

“Aren’t they engaged?”

Wally nodded.

Dick cocked his head. “That’s… wow.”

“I mean. I think she _knows_ , but she doesn’t _know_ -know. You know?”

He couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. “I know,” he said, between fits of laughter. “Jeez. I could never do that.”

“Well, I bet it’d be a lot harder for you—I don’t even know how you’d keep up lies about why you sneak out at nighttime without looking like a cheating bastard.”

“Yeah, true. You know the worst thing?” Dick looked sidelong. “The hottest girl I know in Gotham is the daughter of the _police commissioner_. Talk about trying to keep up lies.”

“Yikes. What’s she look like?”

“Tall. Athletic.  Red hair. With little freckles across her nose.”

“Excellent qualities, if I do say so myself.”

Dick turned to see Wally leaning with a cocky grin and waggling his eyebrows. A quick fling of the chili spoon broke his smile, though Wally dodged out of the way just in time, leaving the chili to spray across the sunflower-yellow kitchen rug.

“What the _heck_ , Wally!”

“What? That— _you did that_! You _threw_ chili at me.”

“Yeah, but it was supposed to hit _you_!” Dick sprang over to the rug. “Ugh, stir the chili, okay? _Slowly_. I’m gonna go throw this in the laundry before Ma Kent notices.”

Dick scooped up the rug and left the room before Wally could argue. The washing machine was in a dingy corner of the cellar, but there was the cool humid air and the darkness actually sort of reminded Dick of being back home. He’d done laundry before, back in his circus days, and it wasn’t too difficult to run the rug through. It’s not like his could have been the first spill in the kitchen—but that didn’t mean Ma Kent had to know about it. She’d trusted him.

So it was a shock, to say the least, to smell something burning as he came back.

“What _happened_?” He ran forward to the chili pot, which Wally had abandoned in favor of chopping something else. There was another pot on the stove, too, of boiling water.

“It said to let it simmer! So I decided to start on the pasta salad…”

Dick sighed. “Damn it, Wally. You had _one job_.”

“It was a _boring job_. And it said you could leave it while simmering!”

Dick checked the dial and groaned. “Yeah, if it’s on _low_. Why is it on _high_ heat?”

“I thought it would simmer faster?”

Dick shook his head. “Are you… _what_?”

“Yeah, I get it, I get it. It’s fine, though. Just a little crispy.”

“It’s _chili_. It’s not meant to be _crispy._ ” Dick bit his lip and took a deep breath. He could salvage this. “Let’s just get another pot and move the _non-crispy_ part over, okay? I’ll stay on the stove.”

Pots and pans clanged in the cabinets, and Wally emerged with another big pot. “Ta da! Crisis averted.”

Dick lifted the old pot and poured the chili into the new one. “Set it back on medium and then we’ll bring it down to a simmer again.

“Okay.”

There was room in the big sink for the old pot—though why was there a dirty bowl and spoon with reddish-brown spots that were unquestionably traces of chili?

“Wally… did you…” He could hardy believe he was asking this. “…eat a bowl of chili?”

“Oh. Yeah. I was hungry. It tastes good! Probably better after simmering.”

Dick’s eyes widened.

“It’s fine! Everything’s fine.”

“It’s  _fine_ ,” Dick repeated.

Wally nodded. “It’s fine _and_ we’ll have the chicken-and-pasta salad ready for the fridge by the time we take the chili out there. The only problem, for the record, was you _throwing chili_ at me because you couldn’t handle my smokin’ good looks.”

“The only thing _smoking_ here is your terrible cooking,” Dick jibed. He didn’t mean to sound as mean as he did, but Wally took it in stride and nudged him.

“Yeah, yeah. So you got a picture of this second-rate redhead?”

Dick flipped open his phone and clicked through to a photo of Jim and his daughter at a recent function. He passed his phone to Wally, who squinted and then burst into laughter.

“What?”

“She’s _way_ outta your league, dude. She’s gotta be, what? Eighteen? She’s in a _college_ sweatshirt.”

Dick blushed. “She’s _seventeen_ ,” he corrected. “She skipped a grade. She’s really smart.”

“Uh huh. Seventeen. And you’re…” Wally cocked his head. “How old _are_ you? I always thought Robin was like, ten. But you’re not ten. Unless you are? You don’t seem ten.”

“I’m thirteen. And I _know_ she’s out of my league. It’s not like I’m _asking her out_.”

“That’s good. She’d probably be creeped out. Little twerp hitting on her.” Wally cackled, and Dick reached out, trying in vain to snatch back his phone. “Too slow!”

“Give it back, man. _Secret_ identity, remember?”

Wally rolled his eyes. “You think I’m gonna memorize the names and numbers in your phone and… what? Cross-check to figure out who you are?”

“You might.”

“Um, maybe if I was _boring_ and _creepy_ ,” Wally said, as photos from his photo flashed one, after another. “No way. And anyway, you’re my friend. I’m not gonna try to figure out your secrets.”

“We’re—we’re friends?”

Wally glanced over, an eyebrow raised. “Aren’t we?”

“Yeah! I mean, I thought so. I just wasn’t sure if you thought so.” Dick fixed his eyes on the bubbling chili. “You didn’t really have a choice about being here, so… I wasn’t sure. Sometimes Midwesterners are just nice without really meaning it.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Wally looked up from the phone. “ _B_? Is that Batman?”

Dick’s heart stopped. Wally had said he wasn’t a snoop, but Bruce would absolutely break his no-kill rule and murder him six ways to Sunday if he let private information get through. Thank God he’d oh-so-cleverly put in initials for his most important numbers: A for Alfred, B for Bruce, and C for Clark.

“Give it back.”

“Oh my _gosh_ , it is! Can we call Batman? Family minutes, right?”

“No.” Dick held out his hand. “Give it, Wally.”

“Can we _text_ Batman?”

“No.”

“Just a little text, though.” He started typing on the number-pad. “ _Hi B-dawg…_ ”

“Hey, stop!” Dick swiped at the phone, but Wally just lifted his hands out of Dick’s reach.

_“…catch any villains?”_

“Seriously, Wally.” He jumped and would have caught it, but Wally was too fast. Switch tactics. Tell the truth. “He’s undercover—”

 _“Just hangin’ here…_ ”

“—So I can’t contact him right now or it might put—”

 _“…with my new best friend, Kid—_ ”

“NO!” Dick jabbed an elbow to Wally’s side and cut a hand into his forearm, sending the phone in an arc that landed right into Dick’s palm—

—Or rather, into Dick’s fingers, which jammed into the _SEND_ button.

Dick’s heart stopped. He flipped back to the message. It was just numbers.

“Holy shit, Wally,” Dick said, collapsing forward on the counter.

“It was a joke, Robin. Lighten up.”

 Dick shook his head, still swimming from the panic. “Holy friggin' shiitake mushrooms on a _stick_.”

Wally crossed his arms. “I wasn’t actually going to _send_ anything. What do you think I am, an idiot?”

“I did, though. _I_ sent it.”

“Oh.  But it was just numbers!”

“Yeah, he’s gonna think it’s a code or something. And he’s undercover—it could put him in danger.”

“Rob, bro, he’s _Batman_. He’s not gonna accidentally leave his ringer on if he’s on a mission.”

“No—the _distraction_ is the danger. He’s going to be worried, and—”

Sure enough, the Kents’ phone came to life. Dick threw himself forward to put his hand on the phone. “Don’t say a _word_ ,” he warned.

He picked up: “Hello? Kent residence.”

“It’s me.” Bruce. “Are you safe?”

“Yes,” Dick said. “Yeah, I’m fine. Right as rain and fit as a fiddle,” he said—the ridiculous phrase they’d set to ensure that Dick wasn’t being held hostage or worse.

“You sent a message.”

“It was an accident. I, um…” His dream replayed in his mind, Bruce’s angry disappointed voice shaking him to the core. He had to tell him. Bruce would find out on his own soon enough. He just had to steel himself to take whatever angry or disappointed words were going to come. He looked down, tracing the pattern in the linoleum. “I—”

“If you’re safe, I have to go. Don’t do that again.” The line went stopped, and Dick’s breath with it.

He looked up to find Wally standing at his side. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “Yeah. He’s just pissed.”

Wally bit his lip and looked away. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

“It’s okay, Wally. It was my fault. It’s okay.”

At least, it was for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all [seen Top Gun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orZqmG1TOBI), right? 
> 
> My beta reader: "Is Dick trying to contrast gayness with Top Gun? Because [I'm not sure that's a great contrast](https://media.giphy.com/media/Q2ITkMc6IejWo/giphy.gif)."


	8. Harvest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You reap what you sow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a playlist for Grounded! [Enjoy!](https://open.spotify.com/user/cutsvh7amk79ohjgdx798fp9n/playlist/2TrO3yGxfUltlZklIvlNRn?si=d1M80yRdQvyiVBbhczqxwQ)

**MONDAY EVENING**

Clark Kent closed his eyes, focused his hearing on the idle chatter of the boys next to him, and took another bite of chili-soaked cornbread. It was different. It was just like always.

Clark _missed_ this. Tailgate supper in the back of the pick-up. All hands on deck, the combines out. Working past sundown in the humid night and then joining up to help the neighbors, as everyone hurried to get the work done before a storm could slow them down or worse.

“Sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” he said. “I started looking into this story and I think it goes way deeper than we’d thought.”

“Do you need to go home?” Ma asked.

“No, Ma. I’m here _all_ evening. Pa says Mister Ross is coming by tomorrow, but I can stay if he can’t—”

“That’s all right, Clark,” said Pa. “You’ve taken your share of time off. And we have Robin and Kid Flash here to help us, anyhow.”

Clark grinned. “They can’t operate a combine.”

“Well, that’s true. But they made a mean chili.”

“We just followed the recipe,” said Kid Flash, ladling seconds into his bowl. “Missus Kent can take the credit for anything that we did right.”

“Green beans and corn are new,” Clark observed. “I gotta say, I wasn’t sure about it at first, but it works.”

“Well, it’s a new recipe—just trying to be a little healthier,” said Ma. “Pa likes to eat like we’re still out here burning calories instead of sitting on our bottoms, but I make what adjustments I can.”

“It’s hard work out here!” Pa argued. “I bet I’ve lost a good ten pounds in sweat alone out here.”

Ma laughed. “Don’t I know it.” She tossed her bowl into the trash bag and began to clean up after them. “I’m gonna bring these things back to the house, and then I’ll take the semi to the elevator. Clark, you can take over for me—that way if you need to leave, you can just head out and we’ll finish up on our own later.”

“ _Ma_ , I told you I’m not leaving.” He couldn’t, not after running out on them last time to help Flash with tornado cleanup. That town hadn’t been much different from Smallville, either. Hard-working Kansas farmers trying to make ends meet, fighting bad luck and Mother Nature.

“Mm-kay, sweetie. And you boys should split—”

“I’ll ride with Clark!” shouted Dick, jumping forward.

Kid Flash folded his arms and glared. “Excuse _you_. I want to ride with him!”

“You can _both_ come with me,” Clark offered, but Dick shook his head and made urgent slashing gestures across his throat. “Or… not?”

Dick nudged Kid Flash. “We’ll switch later, I swear. I just… have some stuff I have to talk to Supes about. _Batman_ stuff.”

“ _Fine_.”

Pa reached an arm around Kid Flash’s shoulder and leaned in, saying, “I’ll let you drive for a bit, how’s that?” The boy brightened instantly.

“All right, team,” said Clark, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go!”

Clark slid into the combine and ran his hands along the control panel as Dick climbed in behind him. It had been a while since he’d helped out, but the muscle memory returned easily.

“Thanks,” Dick said.

“No problem.” Clark started the machine and rolled it forward, following behind Pa, one row over. To his surprise, Dick didn’t jump into any question or story. He just leaned forward and watched the wheat fall under the machine.

After he felt a little more sure of his speed and the angle of the combine head, Clark reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded printout. “That’s for you,” he said, breaking the silence. “Some information I scrounged up on the gangs I ran into in Gotham. I thought you might like the reading material out here.”

Dick was quiet for a bit, reading. The two-page memo detailed activity of the Russian mafia and some curious overlap between their dealings and unresolved money trails from a shell corporation tracing back to none other than Lex Luthor. If only Clark had been able to be shocked. 

“Wow. This is…” He looked over in disbelief. “This is _good_. How’d you find this?”

“You know, I _am_ an investigative reporter.”

“I know, I know. But. Do you think it’s connected with what Bruce is doing? I mean, he’s in Russia now.”

“As is Lex Luthor,” Clark said, tilting his head to cast Dick a knowing look. “Coincidence is—”

“—rarely the simplest explanation, yeah.” Dick folded the memo back into fourths. “He said he’s undercover right now. Bruce, I mean.”

“I thought he was at a summit. How’s he going to explain his absence?”

Dick shrugged. “Probably bring some ladies to his suite, pay them to hang out there and order room service while he’s gone, make it look like a bender.”

Clark’s eyes widened. “That—doesn’t sound very… appropriate.”

“I think that’s the idea,” Dick laughed. “Are you going to go out there?”

“I probably should,” said Clark, furrowing his brow. If Bruce didn’t know the full extent of how interwoven all these pieces were, he could be in danger. More than he always was. Clark turned the combine around, following Pa’s route. “Probably head over tonight.”

“Oh. Great.” Dick cleared his throat and leaned over the dashboard, watching the combine drag the wheat in. So much for his urgent need to talk about _Batman stuff_.

“So,” said Clark, anticipating Dick’s true concern, “it seems you got to meet Kid Flash after all.”

Dick slid back against his seat. His face hardened, but he kept his eyes forward. “Bruce is gonna be _so_ angry.”

“You haven’t told him?”

“No… I _can’t_ , though. He said not to call while undercover, and I don’t want to tell him over email. I accidentally texted and he did call and I didn’t get a chance to explain before he hung up, so when I do get to tell him, it’ll be like, _you waited this long to come forward about this_?”

Clark sighed. He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen like it did. He couldn’t help but feel responsible. He’d convinced Bruce to trust his family, and then Barry had pulled this—not that he could blame Barry, either. He’d needed help, and Bruce hadn’t been available. 

“Maybe he’ll understand…” he offered, not very convincingly.

“I don’t know. It’s my fault.”

“I thought Ma invited them over?”

“For dinner,” Dick said, slumping against the cab door. “ _I’m_ the idiot who invited Kid Flash to stay. It was the right thing to do, but Bruce won’t see that.”

“He will,” Clark said, as if saying it with enough confidence would make it true. “I’ll make him see.”

Dick looked over, an unsure slash of a smile drawn across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t tell him my name or anything.” Dick sighed, long and tortured. “I wanted to, though. That’s nearly as bad.”

Clark’s heart broke. “Dick, there’s nothing wrong with _wanting_ to share the truth.”

“Did your Smallville friends know? About your powers?”

“A couple of ‘em.”

“Really?”

“I lived in a small town, and I didn’t know what was happening to me. To wake up each day being able to do things you couldn’t do before? Not knowing how to control it? That was scary. So, yeah. I told my best friend.” He stopped himself, realizing that he wasn’t talking to Pa, wasn’t needing to justify himself. Dick just needed an ear.

“I’m _not_ like Bruce,” said Dick. “I’m trying. I thought I was getting better. But I can’t… I can’t hold it all in.”

“That’s probably a _good_ thing, Dickie.” Clark smiled, but Dick’s attention was caught up elsewhere. He carried so much on him. It wasn’t right. “If you weren’t at least a little uncomfortable lying about your identity, I’d be worried. Even Bruce doesn’t hold it all in, remember. He has Alfred, and you, and me. And my parents.”

“Uncle Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Um.” Dick bit his lip and glanced back in the direction of the farmhouse, which at this point was just a tiny shell-white box dotting the horizon, with a red fingernail-sized barn next to it. “How’d you first know you liked Bruce?”

Clark shrugged. “I sort of disliked him at first, honestly, but over time I realized that his methods aren’t as cruel as the rumors made them out to be, and—”

“Not like that,” Dick interrupted. He opened his mouth as if to clarify, but then shook his head. “You know what, nevermind.”

Clark let the silence sit. Four years studying journalism and another handful working in the field hadn’t been for nothing: he was pretty good at reading between the lines. But he wasn’t interviewing right now. He was Dick’s friend and mentor, and he didn’t want to pry if the boy didn’t want to share. Though he wasn’t sure how he felt about Lois _and_ Dick pushing this idea that he and Bruce were more than friends. Lois, at least, had made a joke of it. Lois, at least, didn’t live with one of them.

“Right there is where I told Lana,” he said, at last, pointing to a patch of trees.

Dick looked up, startled out of his own thoughts. “What?”

“Lana Lang. My best friend, the one that I told about my powers. This is where I told her. Showed her. It was night, and…” The memory of it hit Clark like a strong hallucination: the brisk autumn air of the day cut through the warm summer heat, the feeling of rising a few feet off the ground overtook that of the wheel in his hands, the booming sound of his heart and hers both pounding with excitement drowned out the combine. “She fainted, and I waited for her to come to, sitting in the middle of this field, hoping she wouldn’t call me a freak or refuse to speak to me ever again.” 

“What happened?”

“None of those things. But she…” He chuckled at the memory. “She’d thought I’d taken her out there to ask her out. Not to ask her to keep a secret as big as my life.”

“ _Did_ you ask her out?”

“Later. Turned out she’d liked me for quite a while. On my end, well, I started liking her before I knew I liked her. At the time, I just knew we were friends. Real friends, the kind that you can trust with your life—and I did. I was friends with Pete, too. But I didn’t take him out to the fields to tell him about my powers. I didn’t try to sit on the same side of the lunch table as him every day. I didn’t get jealous when he asked Becky Braverman to prom.”

Dick nodded, seemingly understanding what Clark was trying to say. 

“I guess some people just know right away how they feel about someone, or it hits them like a train. But it’s not always that obvious.” Clark shrugged. “With Lana, we were friends, and then enough little things happened and I realized that I maybe felt… I don’t know. More than just friendly. That make sense?”

Dick looked at him sidelong, wheels turning in his head, and then he nodded. “Yeah. That makes sense. But you can just _really really_ want to be friends with someone, right? Without it being more? Like a… friend crush?”

“Oh, abso- _lute_ -ly.”

“Yeah?” Dick’s voice was small, uncertain. Clark didn’t miss being thirteen, that was for sure.

“Yeah,” he said. He reached for an example, but Bruce wouldn’t do, not if Dick thought they were actually an item (sticky-note: figure out what gave Dick that idea). He’d definitely felt that way with Lois at first, but that wasn’t so cut and dry, either, so much as a confusing mess with Superman and her disdain for Clark and their professional relationship. Diana, though… That would work. 

“Yeah,” he repeated. “Soon as I met Diana, she blew me away. But… I wasn’t thinking about her like _that_. I just wanted to see her again. Work with her again. Have her see me as… as worthy, you know? You’ve met her. You know.”

“Right,” Dick agreed. “I mean, that’s just what she does.”

“Exactly. She makes you feel like you can be just as great as she is, even though she’s… I don’t even know what. Created by the gods? Like. Okay. _Gods_ are real, that’s weird. So all of that… that wasn’t romantic interest. That’s just her being incredible.”

Dick’s eyebrows pinched together, ever-so-slightly, as if in disbelief.

“You don’t think so?”

“No, yeah,” Dick said, a smile pulling on his lips. “She’s incredible.” 

“So why the face?”

Dick laughed, at ease now. “ _Gods are real—that’s weird_? Says the Kryptonian. You know, _you’re_ pretty incredible, too, Uncle Clark.”

“Shucks.” Clark broke into a grin and tousled Dick’s already-disheveled black waves. “So are you, kiddo.”

“Yeah, _okay_.” It was a little more than a playful retort; his cast-down eyes and jagged tone move into the domain of self-deprecation and veering right toward self-loathing.

Clark shot a stern look over at Dick. “What’s got into you?”

“I just don’t _get_ it—you and Bruce are friends, but he’s nothing like you or Diana. Like, you have all these powers…” Dick shook his head and then looked away. Something was eating at him. He spoke his next words into the wind, though Clark had no trouble hearing them: “Don’t you feel like he holds you back?”

Clark’s heart ached. Of course, Bruce had been worried about this from the start, and he’d said as much back when he’d first actively invited Superman to help Batman and Robin solve a tricky case. It was why Bruce had become more and more flippant as Clark came around more and more, and Dick grew more and more attached, rivaling Jimmy for Superman’s biggest fan. It’s why Bruce had thrown a seemingly childish fit about _Gotham pride_ when Dick insisted on getting a Superman poster for his bedroom. Or why, when Dick had made a family tree for his Spanish class and called him _Tîo_ _Clark_ , Bruce had pulled Clark aside and they’d had one of their nastiest fights to date.

_You give him an impossible standard_ , Bruce had said, fully aware that words could cut as deep as a Kryptonite knife. And Clark had noted that Bruce was perfectly capable of that himself. Bruce hadn’t taken that kindly. After that, Bruce had forbidden him from coming around for a few weeks—though in the end, he relented, and the fight was left as a matter of the past. Sure, sometimes Clark would catch Bruce watching Dick’s amazement with a look of concern, but he’d never thought that Bruce could be right…

Dick had only ever seemed buoyed by his presence, and he’d never seemed discouraged after meeting the other superheroes, but then, Dick was conscientious. He would’ve saved any negative reactions for home. For Bruce alone. And if he had, maybe Bruce wasn’t just being overprotective and paranoid. Or maybe Bruce was projecting his own insecurities, but that didn’t make Clark feel any better.

He waited for Dick to look back before saying, “No, Dick. Not for a single moment.”

Dick blinked hard, and twin streams of tears streaked down from his eyes. “Don’t lie to make me feel better,’ he said. 

As if Clark’s heart hadn’t already been torn out of its chest. He parked the combine, making sure Dick knew how serious he was.

“You think I’d _lie_ to you?”

Dick shook his head. “No,” he muttered, bouncing his leg with nervous energy.

“Get out of the machine.”

“What?”

Clark picked up the walkie. “Pa, we’re taking five.” He opened his door. “Come on, walk with me. You need to stretch your legs.”

“Oh.” Dick nodded in agreement and then climbed across, getting out on Clark’s side. 

They started to walk in the path left by Pa’s combine, skimming the line between harvested and unharvested wheat.

“Why would you think Bruce holds me back?” Clark asked. “Is this about what he said about you helping me in Gotham?”

“No, it’s just… You can do so much,” Dick said. “You can fly to the moon and back while Bruce is still changing into his suit. You don’t get… I don’t know. Bored?”

“You think I could get _bored_? Are we talking about the same person? Bruce _Wayne_? World’s Greatest Detective? Martial arts genius? Inventor of the Batarang?”

Dick laughed. “You know what I mean,” he said, the temporary amusement fading back into anxiety.

“Dick…” Clark dropped to a knee, like he used to regularly when Dick was new to their world and so much smaller. Even with Dick’s recent growth spurt, Clark was able to meet him eye-to-eye this way. “Friendship isn’t based on what you can do. It’s based on respect. All my best friends—Bruce, Lois, Jimmy, _you_ —do amazing things without any powers at all. You’re smart, and curious, and you don’t ever accept half-done as good enough. You do what’s right, even when it’s not easy. Maybe that’s just me, but I’d take those qualities in a friend over any superpower.”

A hint of a smile teased its way across Dick’s face—not an amused one like before, but a genuine, hopeful one. “Really?”

“ _Really_. Maybe Bruce can’t beat me in a fight, but—”

“Yes, he can,” Dick interrupted.

Clark laughed and stood back up. “No way. Not without Kryptonite.”

Dick held his hands out, as if that proved his point.

“Wait.” Clark did a double-take. “Are you saying—Does Bruce have Kryptonite?”

“I’m not saying he _does_ ,” Dick hedged, starting to walk again, “but _logically_ , I mean, if _you_ were Batman, you wouldn’t want to be _unprepared_ to take down a Kryptonian.” He looked back at Clark with an apologetic smile. “You know, if it were _necessary_ …”

“Right. If it were necessary.” 

Clark began to walk again, shaking off the distraction. Bruce _trusted_ him. It was just a contingency. In case an evil spirit possessed him. Or an evil Kryptonian were attacking. 

“Like General Zod,” he said aloud. 

It made sense. It just would’ve been nice if he’d been _told_.

“Yeah. Like Zod.” Dick stole a brief glance back at Clark. “Don’t be angry?”

“I’m not angry,” said Clark with a sigh. After all, if Clark _had_ any Kryptonite, he’d give it to Bruce. And it was possible that Bruce had swiped it from Luthor on some terrible-rich-person golf date. In which case, even better. “I wouldn’t expect anything else. That’s who he is.”

“Yeah.”

“See, that’s exactly what I mean. Bruce doesn’t have superpowers, but he has strengths. He makes me better, and that’s what friends do.”

Dick stopped this time. “How can anyone make _you_ better?”

“Well, I can’t take it for granted that I can win, can I? And even so, I _fight_ better with him. He helps me notice things I wouldn’t. And I try harder. I’ll think I’m tired, and then I look over, and there he is: two punches away from collapsing, running on four hours’ sleep, and never letting down.”

A faint smile danced across Dick’s lips, and he turned away again, running his hands through the soft tips of the wheat.

“If I need to face something scary, a fight I’m not sure I can win, I think about him, going into fights with the Justice League with nothing but his Batsuit and batarangs. And _you_ , kiddo,” he added, placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder, “you face Gotham without even those, and you do it with a smile. You think anyone would fight at _your_ side and not leave it inspired to be a better hero?”

Dick’s hands had formed fists around the wheat. He couldn’t be _angry_ , could he? A small shake of his shoulders suggested that he was holding back some other emotion. Maybe just too many emotions, in general. He was trying to control too much. Like Bruce would.

A hand wiping across his eyes confirmed Clark’s theory. Dick let go of the wheat and turned around, finally looking up at Clark with blue eyes full of determination instead of doubt. “Thanks, Uncle Clark. That… that means a lot, from you.”

“Hey. It’s only the truth.”

Dick broke into a grin now. “Scout’s honor?”

Clark held up three fingers. “Scout’s—”

The grin burst into laughter, and all of Dick’s pent up anxiety released into it.

“Are you making _fun_ of me?”

“No,” Dick said, in between gasps for air. “ _Never_.”

“You know what else we learned in Scouts?”

Dick shook his head, tightening his lips shut as his face continued flushing.

“The Fireman’s Carry,” Clark said, scooped Dick around his hips before he could react. He tossed the boy over his back, reaching around to secure one of his arms with his other hand. 

“Hey!” Dick alternated between laughter and kicking Clark’s chest. “Lemme down!”

“Nope.”

“Uncle Clar-r-rk!” His weight jerked in an admirable attempt at escape, but Clark held fast.

“You know,” said Clark, striding back toward the house, “this isn’t actually safe to do in a fire.”

“Oh my _gosh_ , I _know_ ,” whined Dick.

“You should actually _drag_ a person in a fire, because there’s less smoke lower to the ground.”

Dick groaned loudly and let his body go slack, giving up. “I _know_ all of this, Uncle Clark.” He perked up. “Did you know you can also use it as a judo throw?”

“That so?”

“Yeah. Can I get down now?”

Clark stretched his neck to look Dick in the eye. “Who are you, and what have you done with Dick Grayson?”

“I’m not a little kid anymore,” Dick said.

“All right, all right.” Clark released his hold and let Dick flip off his back. “I know that. I just never thought you’d get too old for a lift.”

“I’m not too old. But we have work to do.”

Clark squinted down at him. “Guess you’re right. Race ya?”

“You’re a total _jerk_ , Uncle Clark.” His eyes flickered over to the other combine, clearly judging what option would spare him the most embarrassment in front of a new friend. “ _Fine_ , you can carry me. Single bound?”

“Oh, you betcha. Hold tight.” 

As soon as Dick followed the order, Clark took a leap back to the combine. Just before they landed, Dick pushed himself off and flipped back to the ground, shaking himself off. Finally, his usual grin was back on his face.

“Thanks, Blue,” said Dick, clambering back into the seat. “For everything.”

“Anytime.” Clark slid behind the wheel and tapped a fist to Dick’s chin. “You don’t have anything to worry about, kiddo. Kid Flash would be lucky to have you as a friend.”

 

* * *

 

** TUESDAY MORNING, AFTER CHORES **

“Man, I still can’t believe you’re friends with _Superman_ ,” Wally said from behind the closet door. His towel flopped over the top of the door, landing heavily and leaving a damp gleam on the off-white paint. “I mean, he’s nice, you’re nice, so that makes sense, but I always thought he and Batman were like, _frenemies_.”

“People just think that because they’re so different,” Dick said, checking his plank form in the door mirror. He looked back down at his fingers on the the speckled carpet and continued, “You don’t see them work together outside the League because Batman works at night, but they’re actually really good friends.”

“Flash never told me that. _He_ said Batman’s chilly towards the whole League.”

“No, Batman is chilly towards Flash.” Dick reached out his right arm, stretching it while balancing on his left. “And Green Lantern. They’re new, and he takes a while to warm up to people, that’s all.”

“Apparently.” Wally stepped around the door and pushed it half-closed.

“I printed out articles about your rogues.” Dick used his free hand to point to a folder he’d left on the dresser. “You should read up while I go shower.”

“I already _know_ all of Flash’s rogues. President and Founder of the Fan Club, remember?”

“You know who they _are_ ,” Dick clarified. He switched arms. “Figure out their rhythms. Motivations. Get in their heads.”

Wally picked up the folder and flipped through it. “Not sure I agreed to let you give me homework. You know my aunt’s the one who wrote like half of these, right?”

“Robin?” Ma’s voice came from the stairs. “You have a call.”

Dick’s heart stopped. Since he’d come to Smallville, Bruce had never called in the morning. If Bruce was calling while undercover, and not at his usual time after dinner, that meant it was urgent. Which meant Clark had probably told him about Wally. With any luck, it was Alfred.

“Wait, is it Batman?” Wally asked.

“Coming!” Dick shouted back down. He dropped his hand and sprung from the plank to his feet.

Wally grabbed his arm. “Robin! You gotta let me say hi to—

“Not now, Wally.”

“I thought we were _friends._ ”

“We are, so trust me. Stay here. Go through your rogue dossiers.”

Wally scoffed, but Dick didn’t have time to deal with his dramatics.

He approached the phone like a booby-trapped bomb, gingerly picking it up. It was hot in his hands, which had become clammy on the walk downstairs. “Hello?”

“Are you alone?” It _was_ Bruce.

“Yes. It’s just me.”

The line was quiet for two seconds.

“Clark swung by a few hours ago.” It _was_ Bruce, and he _did_ know. But he just said: “We’re closing in on the target here. I’ve uncovered some information about a planned bombing, and with Clark’s help, I could have this wrapped up by the end of the week.”

“That’s great,” Dick said, wary of Bruce’s attempt to soften the blow. Clark’s doing, probably. “Did he, um. Tell you what’s going on here?”

“He did.”

“I wanted to tell you myself,” he blurted out, truthfully, “but you were on radio silence, so—”

“He says you’re completely innocent in the matter. Is that true?”

Dick hung his head. “I had no idea they were coming, but….”

“But you invited him to stay,” Bruce provided.

“I had to. I did what you asked. I figured out reasons—good reasons—why you were right, and I understand them all, but I did what I thought was needed.”

“Which just so _happens_ to be what you wanted to begin with.”

“I didn’t do this for _me_ ,” he said, his voice sharpening. “I helped Flash keep an untrained meta out of a tornado storm. I thought—”

“I’m not sure I could have been clearer about my expectations on this matter.”

“You said you wanted leadership, not obedience.” Dick jutted out his chin. “There was a crisis. I made a call.”

“You made a _call_.”

“Yeah, I did.” Dick swallowed back his anger. Bruce could be so _patronizing_ sometimes. “It’s what you would have done.”

“Is it?”

“You know, Clark was _wrong_ about you. He said you’d understand.”

“I—” Bruce’s words cut short. “I’m trying.”

“Try _harder_.” Dick slammed the phone into its cradle, ending the call.

_Holy hot temper,_ what had he done? He picked up the receiver to call back, but Bruce could still be undercover. He couldn’t call. He pulled out his cell phone, flipped it open, and clicked through until a message to Bruce read: _Sorry. Call?_ He pressed to send, but the sending progress stalled. As if he needed another reminder that he was stranded so far from civilization.

Ma poked her head in the kitchen. “Everything okay, dear?”

Dick shook his head. “I think I might be grounded until I’m twenty-one. Assuming he even wants me back. You aren’t in the market for another orphan, are you?”

“I’m sure it’s not all that bad,” she said, pulling him into a hug. “But you’re welcome here as long as you like.”

“Thanks, Ma,” he mumbled.

“Why don’t you run up and get ready for harvest?” she asked, stepping back and tucking his hair away from his eyes. “Pa’s already got started, on account of the forecasts for storms later, and I’m sure Wally’s used up all his patience.”

Dick nodded and pulled himself up the stairs. Bruce’s voice rang in his ears: _I’m trying_. And then Dick had thrown away that chance and hung up on him. God, what had made him do that?

There was nothing he could do for now. Just focus on harvest. Do right by the Kents and Wally.

He opened the door to Clark’s old room, but instead of finding a friendly face, he got a hard shove against his chest. Reflexively, he pivoted and cut in to Wally’s arm, only to have his target blur in front of him.

A paper waved illegibly in Dick’s face as Wally shouted, “What the _hell_ is _this_?”

“What’s _what_?”

Wally shook the paper open and cleared his throat. “One,” he read, and before he said another word, Dick’s stomach dropped. “He is untrained, with no relevant prior experience, but highly visible and therefore a prime target for villains in search of a way to manipulate the Flash. This dangerous combination means there is a high chance he is killed within the year.”

He looked up, eyes blazing. “What. The _hell._ Is _this_.”


	9. Consequence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: more passive/minor self-harm tendencies, which is apparently a pattern? but I guess that's not surprising at all, as it's sort of standard issue with Batfamily membership.

 

**TUESDAY MORNING**

_“What. The hell. Is this.”_

 

“It’s not what it looks like,” Dick said. He swiped for the paper, but Wally dodged out of his reach on the other side of the doorway.

“Two,” Wally continued, now with a false humor in his voice, “His powers are untested and are the result of an amateur experiment, which means that he is a danger to both himself _and others_.”

“Wally, _stop_!” Dick threw himself forward, and Wally blurred away, across to the far side of the room. He wasn’t even sure why he’d bothered trying.

“Three. He manipulated the experiment conditions to gain powers.”

“I wrote that before—”

“This suggests that he is _reckless, immature,_ and _unable to appreciate the value of non-powered skills_.”

Suddenly, Wally was standing _right_ in his face.

“You think I’m _reckless_?”

Dick shook his head. “No, I—”

“Four.”

“Stop!” Dick reached out again, but this time he prepared himself, only feinting for the paper while throwing himself into Wally’s obvious next path.

Getting run into at super-speed was not pleasant, even if it was only by a scrawny teen. But Wally did stumble, long enough for Dick to pin him into a hold. He reached for the paper while Wally’s free arm waved it back and forth like a hummingbird wing.

“Flash and Kid Flash,” Wally recited, apparently reading in short bursts while holding the paper at arm’s length, “have not yet earned a level of trust to know our secret identities.”

Dick scrambled again for the paper and found himself promptly flat on his back, and—no, now he was slammed against the beam of the bed, his wrists tied behind. Batman’s advice about not engaging hostile speedsters alone now made a lot more sense.

“This makes it unwise to spend too much time in their company and thereby risk exposing confidential information.”

He tugged his wrists, testing the binding. It was just a sweatshirt. He’d be insulted if he weren’t already afraid Wally was never going to talk to him again. “Wally, _please_ —”

“Five,” Wally read, now standing before his captive audience. “Being friends with a metahuman could damage my training or influence me to follow his foolish example and try to acquire powers myself.”

Dick blinked and saw the paper now crumbled in Wally’s hands, and then it was flying at his face. He caught it just in time, having loosed the feeble knot while listening.

Wally stared Dick down. “I’ll ask you one more time: what the hell was that?”

“It’s not what it sounds like.”

“Really? It’s not a list of my faults and reasons why you shouldn’t be friends with me?”

He had a point.

“Okay, first of all? It’s _mean_. I get enough of—” Wally shook his head. “Whatever. I never thought you were such a total dick. Second? This is so messed up. You think I’m going to _die_? And you didn’t think to say that to me?”

“No, I—”

“Not to mention how freaking _weird_ this is. Who makes a list of reasons to dump a friend? Who _writes that out_? Are you a sociopath or something? Seriously, just tell me off to my face if you think I’m such a… what was it? _Reckless, immature amateur_? I’ll go back to Central City if you—”

“Damn it, Wally,” Dick snapped, “shut up for _two seconds,_ and I’ll explain!”

Wally folded his arms. “Waiting.”

Dick closed his eyes and took a deep breath, recovering from the verbal barrage and taking in the brief silence. He wasn’t even sure where to start—Wally was all over the place, and it made it impossible to focus his response. This was probably _exactly_ how he made Bruce feel, constantly.

That really wasn’t a useful thought right now.

“Yeah, so, that was _five_ seconds. I don’t need to deal with this. Tell Mister and Missus Kent I’m sorry, but I’m out.”

“Wait, no—!”

Dick lunged forward, but he only met air. He sprinted down the stairs, three at a time, but by the time he reached the door, Wally was nowhere in sight.

He was gone, and there was no way Dick could catch up.

 

* * *

 

Dick didn’t know how long he stayed in the shower, only that it was long enough for the bathroom to become so hot and humid that the air was heavy to breathe and his head was light. And then, instead of turning down the water temperature or getting out and facing the day, he slumped onto the floor of the tub and stared at the wall, basking in self-loathing and scalding water.

He’d ruined Bruce’s trust, and for what? A friend that now wouldn’t speak to him. And Wally wouldn’t speak to him because he’d tried to earn back Bruce’s trust. It was an impossible cycle that left him where things always seemed to leave him: alone.

When he finally dragged himself into the kitchen, he found Ma Kent wrapping sandwiches for the day.

“Where’s Wally?”

“He went home. We got in a fight.”

Ma Kent tilted her head. “Oh, dear. Today is just one of those days, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

Dick bit his lip. “Not really. I… it’s my fault. With Bruce, too. They have good reasons to hate me.”

“No one _hates_ you. I don’t think anyone could if they tried.” She slid a set of tupperware over on the counter, brought the pasta salad bowl out of the fridge, and pushed it into Dick’s hands: a silent command to be productive through the pity party. Alfred would have let him mope over an ice cream sundae, but he wasn’t at Wayne Manor, that was for sure. “That aside, if you know what you did, then you’re in a good place to fix it. But you need to start with telling _them_ that you understand why they’re upset, instead of fighting it.”

“Yeah,” he said, scooping the pasta salad into the plastic dishes. One for him, one for Ma, one for Pa, and one for Mister Ross. There was plenty extra—but then, they’d accounted for Clark (just in case) and Wally. And now Wally was gone.

“I’m sorry, Ma. It’s my fault Wally left and can’t help us today.”

“You’re forgiven,” she said, stacking the tupperware back up and setting it back in the fridge. “He was here for you, not us.”

Dick wanted to argue it—Wally hadn’t been there for _him_ , he’d been there for his own good—but arguing hadn’t done him much good, lately. “Thanks,” he said. “You said Pa’s out there already?”

“Yep. Those guys got going as soon as you came back from morning chores. You want to run out and join them? Jonathan would love the company.”

“Don’t _you_ want company?”

Ma Kent shrugged. “I’ll take it, but I’m in the truck. I get to listen to my book on tape. You know what I learned yesterday?”

Dick shook his head.

“An average adult has enough potential energy inside them to explode with the force of _thirty_ h-bombs. Isn’t that just the wildest thing you ever heard?”

It had to be nice, to be like Ma and react to that by thinking, _wow, amazing_. And not: _wow, let’s hope no one harnesses that as a power_. “Wow,” he said. “So the book—it’s about science?”

“Mmhmm.” Ma Kent nodded. “But then, isn’t _everything_?”

"I guess so."

"Go on, now, and bring those out," she said, handing him a bag of three apples and cheese. "No better mending for the blues than food in your stomach and work for your hands.”

 

* * *

 

**TUESDAY AFTERNOON**

“How long til dinner?” Dick asked.

Pa Kent glanced at the time. “An hour or two, I’d reckon. You hungry already?”

“I’m okay.” He _was_ getting a little antsy, all told, and the idea of stretching his legs and digging into the chicken and pasta salad he and Wally had made the day before was pretty appealing.Ma Kent had been right: his mood seemed to sway in direct relationship to hunger and boredom.  And after several hours in the combine, both were creeping back up on him. He looked out the windows of the combine. One one side, it was bright as midday, but on the other, an unmistakable dark cloud was stretching out, casting fields in shadow like a sinister flying saucer. “Looks like a storm,” he said.

“Sure does.” Pa Kent grimaced. “Let’s get as much done as we can before it comes, then. A little rain’s okay, but we might need to break if it gets real bad. And wet wheat is nobody’s friend.”

But the wind came long before any rain. It picked up, slowly at first, but then strong enough that it whistled by and started throwing around chaff and straw. Some straw blew up and into their windshield, making Dick jump in surprise.

“Holy sh—” He caught a warning eye from Pa and caught himself: “—hift in weather conditions. That isn’t good, is it?”

“Nope.” Pa Kent squinted and looked back across to the stormcloud. “Listen to me, Dick: I want you to jump out and run home. You hear?”

“What about you?”

“I’ll come in if need be. It might be nothing—it’s common enough to get conditions like this and nothing bad—but I need you to be near the house, just in case.”

Just in case. Just in case a tornado came, he meant. Dick didn’t like it, just waiting for a random strike and hoping for the best… but there was nothing else he could do. He couldn’t stop a tornado.

Wally would’ve been able to. But Wally was gone, and Dick couldn’t blame him. He’d blown everything, and now the people of Smallville were going to suffer for it.

“We should call Clark,” he said.

“No.”

“But—”

“Son, you told me he’s in Russia helping Bruce bring down some international plot of gangsters and terrorists and who knows what. You want me to call him away from that? And for what? Some grain?”

Dick’s mouth hung open. There was no good answer to that. “But if people lose their crops…”

“Lives come before livelihoods, Dick. Now go on. Run back, and run fast.”

Dick still hesitated.

“ _Go_ , damn it!”

The swear sounded all wrong from Pa Kent’s mouth, and Dick snapped into action. He jumped out of the side of the moving combine, rolling in the broken stalks of wheat. The combine looped around under the blackened cloud, and Dick began to run.

Nothing in the sky looked like a tornado, but the wind was whipping through the fields, blowing dry soil and dust into Dick’s face as he ran. As he approached the house, Ma Kent ran forward to meet him, holding her wide-brimmed hat.

“Go into the cellar!” she shouted.

“What about Pa Kent and Mister Ross?”

Ma pointed behind them, back toward the fields. Pa’s truck was pulling out and coming down the street. “They’re coming in,” she said. So it had gotten bad after all. “Go now—I’ll help get Jonathan in and we’ll meet you down there.”

Dick moved to comply, but the hum of an engine coming down the road distracted him. A semi, on its way from a neighboring farm to drop off wheat.

“What about them?” he said. “Shouldn’t they pull over?”

“I’ll go flag them down,” said Ma.

“I can get there faster.”

“Dick, don’t you—”

He didn’t wait for another order, instead tearing out to the road. Maybe he _would_ take Wally’s powers if someone offered. He imagined himself breaking the sound barrier as he sprinted. As his feet hit pavement, he looked down the way — the oncoming truck roared forward. Dick raised his arms and waved them wildly in the middle of the road as it came closer and closer.

“Stop!” yelled Dick, wishing more than anything that he had his red doublet and yellow cape right about now.

At the last second, the truck skidded to a stop. The driver threw open the door and leaned out, shouting over it.

“What in hell’s name do you think you’re doing, boy?”

“There’s a tornado ahead!” Dick shouted, pointing out to where the dark cloud seemed to be dipping down toward the horizon. “You have to stop! Come with us!”

“Us who?”

“I’m with the Kents. Right there—please, you can’t go into that.”

“I ain’t scared of a little twister, son.” Drops of rain began to spatter on his head and fly into his face in the wind.

“Sir, please, you _have_ to get out.”

The radio from the truck seemed to be saying the same thing: “ _You are approaching a twisting storm_ ,” a computer-automated voice alerted. “ _Please exercise caution_.”

“I don’t have to do a _damn_ thing. You get outta the road now. Let me get paid and get home before this rain gets worse.”

“I’ll pay for it, okay? Your life matters more than your livelihood,” he said, echoing Pa Kent.

“ _You’ll_ pay for it?”

Dick nodded. If Wally wasn’t here to stop the tornado, then at least Dick could be himself. That counted for something. “Yeah. You’ve heard of Bruce Wayne? Wayne Enterprises?”

The farmer squinted. “Rich boy?”

“Yeah. He’s my guardian.”

“What?”

“My dad!”

“You’re bull-shittin’ me.”

“No bull, sir,” Dick shouted, moving closer. “I promise, I’ll pay you back if you lose any wheat. Just _please_ , come with us.”

“You really ain’t gonna let me drive, are you?”

“No, sir.”

The farmer swore to himself, but complied. By the time he stepped onto the Kents’ property, Ma and Pa Kent were there, along with Mister Ross, herding the chickens into the coop and heading toward the house.

“Jonathan, you want to explain what this rich city boy is doing, stopping me in the road?”

Pa Kent gave Dick a withering look. “Well, Lenny, I expect he’s just trying to do the right thing.”

“Right thing’d be letting me finish my haul. I’m an adult.”

Ma interceded now, touching a hand to Lenny’s shoulder. “How about I get us some lemonade and we wait this out? It’ll pass soon enough, and then you can be on your way.”

Lenny regarded Dick with a narrow eye. “He says he’ll pay for any loss I have. He’s good for that kinda money?”

Pa laughed now. “Oh, he’s good for it. He’s Bruce Wayne’s boy.”

“So he said,” said Lenny, as they settled onto the porch. “I never took those rumors for gospel.”

“What rumors?” Ma emerged with four lemonades and a quizzical expression. She passed the drinks around, waiting for an answer.

“Oh, nothing, ma’am.” Lenny suddenly cast his eyes away and looked as if he was having trouble swallowing something.

“Oh, _those_. They’re good friends, Lenny.” Ma chuckled to herself. “Though I can’t say as I would mind. Most eligible bachelor, they say.”

Dick choked on his lemonade. “You know what we could talk about instead? The giant _tunnel of wind_ on its way to kill us.”

Mister Ross laughed now. “It’ll pass soon.”

“I don’t know about that,” Dick said. Flash had left them to go save a harvest from tornadoes, in a place just like this. And he was pretty sure Clark had said something about tornadoes tearing apart a community in Oklahoma… In the faint distance, a siren began to wail. “I _really_ think we should go inside.”

Ma nodded. “Maybe you and I should. The men can fend for themselves.”

“No, they can’t,” Dick insisted. “I’m not going in unless we _all_ go in.”

Voices from the radio were loud and clear, reporting. There wasn’t just one tornado. There were a dozen, across three counties. It was just like the other cases. Oklahoma. Missouri. Kansas. All at harvest. Each attack less than two days after the last. Twelve tornadoes. Every time.

“Well, ain’t that an odd coincidence,” said Lenny.

“Coincidence is rarely the simplest explanation,” Dick said, almost automatically.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. He marched over to the cellar, opened the door, and stared the adults down. They still hesitated. The big guns, then. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve already seen two people die in my life, and I’m not planning on seeing any more.”

That worked well enough: Ma Kent closed her eyes tight in sympathy and tugged Mister Ross along, followed by Pa Kent, who clapped a hand on Dick’s shoulder, and finally by Lenny, who whispered, “Who died?” to Pa as they descended the cellar stairs.

Dick leaned over and heaved one door shut.

“We can lock it from the inside,” Pa Kent called up. “Come on in.”

“Sorry,” said Dick, lifting the other door, “But I can’t right now.”

He let it close with a loud clang and slid the bar between the doors. Metal scraped on metal, and they were finally secured, safe.

The cloud had funneled into a bona fide tornado now, reaching down on the horizon and swirling, nearer and nearer. Dick held a hand up to shield his eyes from the flying dust and debris. Maybe he should’ve held on to those sunglasses after all.

Someone was controlling the tornadoes. He was sure of that.

The question was how.

And who. And why. And from where…

So maybe there were a lot of questions, but he was good at finding answers.

Batman’s voice rang in his head: _failing to prepare is preparing to fail_. All well and good, but he’d tried doing things Batman’s way. Batman’s way had driven Wally right out of Kansas.

Whole branches suddenly flew up into the air, thrown forward into the fields by the approaching storm.

Calling for Superman was an option. Maybe the right one, whatever Pa Kent had said. Lives were at stake there, but lives could be at risk here, too.

But he had to take care of this himself. Find the source of the storms. Stop them for good.

The storm rolled forward, slowly but steadily, whipping more and more debris along the landscape. Behind him, Dick saw clear bright skies, but here, there was only spitting rain, and wind that slapped against his face, and dark, angry clouds.

The sound of crumbling walls added to the sounds of the roaring storm. The winds crushed an out-building in the distance flat, and now flung huge slabs of roofing and concrete across the fields. Unhelpful fun facts from science class popped into his brain, saying things like, _in the middle of a tornado, even a blade of grass can stab through a wall!_

Almost on cue, some flying object hurled into the Kents’ land and crashed into one of the combines.

Dick began to run toward the storms. There were twelve, the radio had said. Whoever was controlling these was probably at the center. So that’s where he’d go.

A voice shouting his name rode in on the winds: “Dick!  Dick, come back here!”

Pa Kent.

Dick stopped and turned, but before he could respond, something hard smacked into the back of his head, and everything went black.


	10. Humility

 

**TUESDAY AFTERNOON**

The next thing he knew, Ma Kent was standing over him. He blinked to try to focus, but his vision just blurred again.

“Dick? Stay with us.”

He was inside. That wasn’t good. How long had he been out?

He lurched forward to sit up, and the room spun. Yellow and turquoise and white. The kitchen.

“Easy there,” said Pa Kent, holding him back. “You had a nasty hit to the head.”

“I’m okay,” Dick said, but he lay back down on the linoleum floor. A towel rested under his head, but it felt wet. Dick looked between their faces, trying to prove himself. It was dark, though. The lights were off, and the sky outside was tinged green.

“Your head is bleeding and you were out for five minutes,” Pa Kent countered. “That's not  _okay_.”

Ma Kent lifted a finger in front of his vision. “Can you focus on this, Dick?”

He did. “See? I’m fine.”

“I do see.” Ma Kent sighed. “I don’t know, Jonathan. We should still go to the doctor. I doubt it’s his first concussion, between the circus and—well, everything else.”

Rain was coming down hard now, and lightning flashed through the windows. “Shouldn’t we be downstairs?”

“Twister’s passed,” said Pa Kent. “But that didn’t stop you from going outside, did it?”

Dick swallowed hard. He tried to meet Pa Kent’s eyes, but they had a fiercer look about them then he’d remembered.

The phone rang suddenly, the sound so loud he would’ve sworn it had been only an inch from him.

“Maybe it’s the boys,” Ma Kent said, jumping to it. Dick sat up again, letting the room spin and settle around him. “Hello? Oh, thank goodness. Yes, we’re okay. Everyone’s okay.” She stretched the coiled cord and snuck around the corner, shutting the door behind her and muffling the sound.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Pa Kent, bringing his attention back. “You explain yourself to me.”

“I thought…” Dick bit his lip. What _had_ he been thinking? “I don’t know.”

A pinch of concern flashed over Pa Kent’s face. “You can’t _remember_ what you were thinking? Or you just mean you _weren’t_ thinking at all?”

“The tornadoes… I… I had to do something.”

“Uh huh.” Pa Kent folded his arms across his chest.

“It was my fault, so I had to do something,” he repeated, his voice shaking now. “I have to. I have to stop it.”

“How in the Sam Hill is any of that your fault?”

Dick blinked up at him. “Because Wally left. He’d’ve… he’d’ve been able to stop the tornado.”

“Now, you don’t know that. And he left because he chose to leave. But even if you’d driven out Flash _himself_ , those tornadoes wouldn’t be your fault.”

All of his words made sense. They sounded right. But they didn’t feel right.

“I don’t care the reason: you can’t run out into that kind of thing, Dick. You’re human.”

Dick slumped, letting his chin fall to his chest.

“No _sir_ ,” snapped Pa Kent. “Don’t you hang your head like that’s a problem.”

He lifted his chin an inch and peeked up, unconvinced.

“I know how you look up to Clark. And believe me, I don’t blame you one lick. But you aren’t him. And you aren’t Wally, either.”

He knew that. Why was Pa Kent acting like he didn’t _know_ that?

“Now, I’m not gonna say you’re a regular kid,” Pa Kent continued. “You’re not. But you can get hurt like a regular kid. And you can’t do karate on a tornado. Can you?”

Dick mustered only a noncommittal shrug.

“You want to run into a burning building to save someone who needs it? Do it—I’m not gonna tell you otherwise. But you don’t run into the middle of a wedge tornado on some cockamamie guilt trip. Who does that help?”

“I don’t know,” Dick muttered.

“Well, _I_ know: no one. No one at all. You put yourself in danger, and that was it.”

Bruce would’ve said the same thing. _A death wish_ , he called it.

“No, you know what? That _wasn’t_ it.” Pa Kent unfolded his arms and lifted Dick’s chin to look up properly. “You put us both in danger, you hear?”

Dick wanted to crawl into nothingness and never come back. Instead, he burst into tears and hid his face behind his forearms. “I’m sorry,” he said, sobbing. “I’m _sorry_. I can’t do _anything_ right.”

A firm hand steadied his shaking shoulder. “Now that’s a new fresh load of nonsense. I don’t want to hear that.”

“It’s true,” Dick insisted, mumbling into his knees. “Br-Bruce hates me, and Wally hates me, and y-you hate me now too. I’m a terrible partner and a _terrible_ friend and a terrible guest and a terrible hero and—”

“Those sound like easy lies. Truth’s a little more complicated, isn’t it?”

Dick didn’t even know what was true anymore. A freezing glass touched his arms, and he looked up to see Pa handing him water. He took it and drank it half down.

“Why don’t you try again?”

“Bruce was mad at me for being reckless, and then I tried to be like him and k-keep Wally away from the tornadoes,” he recounted, suddenly feeling really foolish for trying to tackle a tornado himself, “and then he said he didn’t want obedience but he got mad at me for disobeying him anyway, and then Wally got mad at me for trying to do what Bruce said, and then Clark said t-to keep you safe, so I tried but then I made you c-c-come outside and you could’ve been hit instead of me!”

“That’s a little better.”

Dick sniffed. He was so tired of feeling like a failure. He was good at so many things, so why did he keep trying to do something that he wasn’t good at?

“Maybe I’m not supposed to be doing any of this.”

“How’d’you figure?”

“I used to be the _best_. In the circus. Not just in _our_ circus, but in any of them. Maybe in all history.” Dick drew his knees in and wrapped one arm around them while he drank the rest of the water. “Maybe that’s all I know how to be. But I just… I wanted to help people. Like Bruce does. Like Clark.”

“Sounds like a lot of trying to be like other people,” Pa Kent concluded, taking away the empty glass.

“But Bruce wants me to be like him. In case he dies.”

Pa Kent leaned back and tilted his head to the side. “Now I wasn’t there, but _sounds_ to me like you misunderstood something he said.”

 _Had_ he misunderstood? Everything had seemed clear enough on the phone.

“You should hear the way he talks about you. How clever you are, and so easy to adjust to new things, and quick with a smile when someone in trouble needs it. How he wishes he could be more like you. How you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”

Dick looked up. “He… said that?”

“Mmhmm. Now maybe I’m not as clever as you, but I don’t think that’d make a lick of sense if he wanted you just to turn into a little copy of him.”

“I guess not.”

“From what I gather, he made you his partner not because you’re just like him, but because of who _you_ are. So you figure out what you do best, and help people _that_ way. Not Bruce’s way, or Clark’s way, or anyone else’s.”

“Okay.” What that meant, he didn’t know, but he was all out of options for trying anything else. “Ma?” he called.

The door opened and she poked her head back in, holding the phone to her ear.

“Is that Bruce?”

She shook her head. “It’s Clark, dear.”

Dick reached out. “Can I—I need to tell him something.”

Ma Kent nodded. “All right, Clark, I’m passing you to Dick… Yes, I promise… Love you, sweetie.”

He warily brought the phone to his ear. “Clark?”

“Hiya, Dick. I hear you had a nasty run-in with a shingle.”

“Yeah.” The more he thought about what he’d done, the dumber he felt. “And I was worried that _Bruce_ would hit the roof.”

Clark laughed, even though the joke hadn’t been that funny. He was nice like that. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay. Listen… Clark, the tornadoes… they aren’t natural. There’s a pattern. It’s every other day, just about—a little less than that—and every time it’s so many of them all in the same range, and always during harvest. Someone’s behind it.”

“You think someone is doing this on purpose?” His voice was serious. At least he believed Dick.

“Yeah. I’m positive. I just… need to figure it out.”

“From what I hear, you need to rest. I’ll pass your hunch on, and we’ll take care of it, all right? Leave it to the League.”

“Okay, but—”

“No buts. The Flash is equipped to manage a tornado storm.”

“Flash wasn’t here today.”

“There was an armed bank robbery in progress—news is still coming in. He made the right call. A man with a gun in a city is more dangerous than some twisters someplace where people know how to respond.”

“What if the bank robbery was a distraction? On purpose?” Flash _had_ responded to the last two storms—if a villain were doing this, they might have realized they needed to get him out of their way.

“That’s… possible,” Clark said. “Listen, I’ll make sure he knows. Bruce and I should be able to wrap up this thing soon, and then we can get to the bottom of your tornado situation.”

“Are you still there? With Bruce?”

“I’ve been back and forth. You have another message?”

“Tell him I’m sorry, okay?  I'm really sorry. I know he’s trying. And… I’m trying, too.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“And tell him I’ll… I’ll send him my list of reasons. I’ll send it tonight.”

 

* * *

 

**TUESDAY EVENING**

Dick squinted at the computer monitor, ignoring the dull headache that was definitely getting worse with every minute in front of the screen. He’d already spent a solid ninety minutes fixing his email to Bruce, and now he was knee-deep in trying to understand this Tornado Tyrant.

He hadn’t meant to jump straight into research, but when he’d gotten up to stretch his legs after sending his email, he made the mistake of going outside. It was like looking at a world that had been drawn out on beautiful paper and then crumbled in the hands of an angry god, ready to be tossed in the waste bin. Some land was completely untouched, but other sections were torn up. One of the barns that he’d seen every day on his work around the farm was now nothing but rubble. The combine that he’d been sitting in only a few hours ago had a huge dent in it that Pa Kent was busy inspecting and trying to repair. Fences were shattered, harvested wheat had been tossed across the farm, and that was only the damage in sight.

So he’d marched directly back to the computer and set to getting to the bottom of this mystery. Pa Kent said to do things his way. He wasn’t entirely sure where Bruce’s way ended and his began, in all truth, but he was pretty sure that anyone’s way of dealing with this would be to gather all the information they could, so that’s what he did.

And then Ma Kent was there, pulling him upright out of his hunched position.

“Dick Grayson, _please_ tell me you haven’t been on the computer this whole time.”

“Um. I totally have not been on the computer this whole time,” he said, zooming in on the map he’d compiled of the tornado strike locations. “I went outside for like five minutes.”

“Doc said you shouldn’t be on the computer at all, given how hard you were hit. Shouldn’t even be reading books or the paper, he said.”

Dick rolled his eyes, but the advice was familiar. “I know, Ma. But I’m onto something here, with the tornadoes.”

“I’m sure you are, but your brain needs a rest,” she said, inserting herself between him and the screen. “Tell you what: you take a seat, and tell me what to search, and I’ll read it out to you.”

He was so tired of being told to rest, to step back, to let other people handle everything. But that didn’t mean he had to do it all alone. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll try.”

It did feel good to stop reading, and to rest against the cool wall of the hallway where the computer was set up. But two minutes in, she paused and reached down to hold still his hands, which had been picking at the carpet.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. I just…” He shook his hands and feet out. Restless.

“Give me just a sec,” she said, spiriting off into a room. She emerged a few seconds later with a bag of yarn and two knitting needles in hand.

“What’re _those_.”

“What do they look like?”

Dick scrunched his face.

Ma Kent knelt down and her fingers flew, looping blue yarn onto one of the needles. “When I was young, I had the hardest time sitting in one place and listening during church,” she said, “until my Ma taught me to knit. I bet you’d like it.”

She handed him the yarn-covered needle, the free needle, and a ball of yarn.

“Now, you slip your right needle into the first loop, like this,” she said, guiding his hand. “Then you loop the yarn around it, back to front, pull it back through with the loop still on, and then slide that stitch off the needle.”

“Okay.”

“Now, you try.”

He did as she had, though when he pulled it back through, the loop fell off.

“That’s okay, try again.”

The second time, he got it, and completed the stitch. “Now again?”

“Again.”

After he’d done a full row, she flipped the needles between his hands. “Now you start over.”

“Okay.” He tried again, but a gust of wind rattled the window and reminded him of his task. “But the research—”

“Right. I’ll read, you listen.”

He was sure he’d be too distracted to listen, but it was actually easier to think, just like she’d said: Ma read the articles he’d found, and he let the words wash over him as he worked until a word or phrase jumped out as important. She didn’t seem to mind the interruptions, or his sudden requests to repeat a paragraph, or to go back, or to jump to a different article, or to search for something entirely different. Still, after an hour of research and a few inches of a knitted something-or-other, she paused again.

“Maybe you should let Bruce and Clark help you on this,” she said. “I don’t see how this is going anywhere.”

“It is. I promise. It’s like… you know how when you clean a room? Like, really clean it, top to bottom, you have to pull everything out and make a mess before you put it all back together?”

“Solving a mystery is like cleaning a room?”

“Sort of. I’m saying my brain gets kind of messy sometimes, before everything snaps into place. It’s part of the process.” Still, it was time to inventory what he knew. He set the knitting down, closed his eyes, and ran through the facts. “Okay, we know these storms have targeted farming communities. In each, they hit at the height of harvest season for winter wheat, but the tornadoes damaged sorghum and corn and spring wheat, too. We know it’s possible to harness winds to make man-made tornadoes, because there’s Weather Wizard. We also know Weather Wizard is in jail right now, thanks to the Flash. The tornadoes have been unusually low on body count given their severity and number.”

“Thank goodness.”

“Right. And no one’s taken credit. Whoever is doing this is trying to make it seem natural. So—” Dick furrowed his brow. “So that’s weird, right? Most superpowered villains like to take credit for their work. It’s an ego thing. Whoever is doing this isn’t doing it for ego. So why?”

Ma Kent spun her chair toward him. “Why do people do anything?”

“Attention. Money. Revenge,” Dick counted off on his fingers, thinking through the villains he’d seen. “To make some kind of political point. Power. Science.”

“Science?”

“Yeah, like.” Dick opened his eyes and waved to the window. “Someone could be testing out an ability. That would make sense, right? Doing something over and over, similar conditions, controlled variables.”

“An experiment.”

“Yeah.”

“You think that’s what’s happening?”

Dick squinted. “Maybe. But then… why during harvest?”

“Maybe it’s money, then. This’ll drive up wheat prices—maybe it’s someone deep in rice or potatoes.”

“Maybe the Tornado Man is a Potato Man?”

Ma Kent shrugged. “You say po-tay-to—”

“I say tor- _nah_ -do.” Dick laughed. Something niggled at the back of his skull, but every time he tried to follow the idea, it ran away.

The _bring-ing-ing_ of the phone shook through the house. Ma Kent jumped up. “Be right back.”

Dick didn’t wait, though. He followed Ma Kent downstairs, taking any excuse to move his legs without disobeying the doctor’s orders to not do anything athletic.

“Bruce!” she said. “How are you?”

Had Clark given Bruce his message already? Or had Bruce read his email? Dick’s toes tapped on the linoleum, and he reached out a hand for the phone. Ma Kent shook her head and held up a finger.

“Yes, that’s exactly what happened,” she said. A pause. “He’s just fine. Recovering nicely. He’s off his feet and off the computer, so I think he’s a little restless, but the dizziness and confusion are gone.” Pause. “Of course—here he is.”

Finally, she held out the phone.

“Hi,” he muttered. He’d been so excited to talk, but that was _before_ he’d remembered that Bruce hadn’t had a chance to yell at him yet for trying to chase down a tornado.

“Dick, I—”

“I’m sorry,” Dick blurted out, at the same time that Bruce said, “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Me too.”

“Dick... You know that even if we’re fighting, I’d be… _very_ upset if something happened to you.”

“I know,” Dick said, his voice small. “I’m sorry for letting you down.”

Bruce paused. “You didn’t let me down. I just want you to be safe.”

“Oh,” Dick whispered. “I thought you’d be angry.”

“I _am_.” Bruce paused. “I’m angry with whoever is making these tornadoes and put you in danger. And as soon as I’m out of here, I’m going to make _that_ person sorry.”

“You believe me? That someone’s behind this?”

Bruce grunted in approval. “If you have the evidence, I trust you.”

“You… do?”

“Yes. Speaking of which… I got your email.”

Dick swallowed, waiting for the other shoe to finally drop.

“I’m impressed,” Bruce said.

 _Impressed._ Dick fell back against the wall in relief. Muscles he didn’t even know had been tensed relaxed.

“It seems like you’ve learned a lot out there.”

“Yeah, I have.” Dick took a deep breath. Finally, he was out of trouble.

“Alfred gets back Friday. And I hear Gotham’s been missing Robin for a bit too long. What do you think?”

Dick’s eyes popped open. “Are you—”

“But I also hear that you have a concussion in need of a some significant rest.”

Dick groaned.

“I’m going to trust that you will be responsible enough to make the right call as to how to handle that information.”

“I’m… I’m not grounded anymore?”

“ _Should_ you be?”

“No!” Dick bit his lip. “Um. But. Bruce? I did promise a guy I’d pay for his lost wheat.”

Bruce didn’t sigh or scold. He laughed. “I can loan you an advance. You can pay me back when your portfolio matures.”

His portfolio. That was it. The price of wheat. It would be a a stupid kind of risk to do all this damage to sell more potatoes, but if someone had invested in winter wheat? That would make tornadoes just before or during harvest time quite a lucky event.

He opened his mouth to share his idea with Bruce, but then stopped. Bruce would tell him to let the League handle it. Maybe he would share, once Bruce got back, and they could take down this tornado demon together.

“Um, hey, Bruce? I gotta go.”

“Go where?”

“My head’s hurting and… you’re right—about the rest.”

“Hn.”

“I—I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Dick.”

“Bye.” He slammed the receiver down, heart pounding with excitement. He spun to Ma Kent, who was making some kind of list on a memo pad. “So, commodities trading is all about guessing future prices of resources—like wheat, right?”

“Right,” Ma Kent said, looking up.

“Well, usually commodities fraud relating to natural disasters happens after the fact. You’ll hear people advertising like, _want to invest in wheat? These tornadoes mean high, high prices!_ But the thing is, the prices are already up—in the markets, I mean. Traders will have jumped all over this as soon as the tornadoes started hitting. They’re, you know, sitting in Chicago, watching the weather. So by the time you get in on it, the prices are already high and you aren’t gonna get anything.”

“Where’s this going, Dick?”

“I think _our_ guy invested early, and now he’s _causing_ the storms. He got in on it before anyone else could’ve known.”

Ma Kent furrowed her brow. “That’s a whole lotta trouble to go through for a chance at money.”

“Less trouble than working sixteen-hour-days to scrape by for a new combine, isn’t it?”

She nodded, but her face soured. “I don’t know. I just can’t fathom how anyone would want to do a thing like that. Ruin good honest people—risk their lives—just for a _little_ money. That’s unthinkable.”

Dick grimaced. “Yeah,” he said, humoring her as if Gotham wasn’t populated and run by all kinds of criminals ready to ruin good honest people and risk, if not _take_ , their lives for a little money. “Unthinkable.”

Something clicked in Ma Kent’s head and her face went from bewildered disgust to pity. “Oh, honey, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. It… it _should_ be unthinkable. That’s why I need to stop them.”

“I understand.” She brushed a lock of hair back from his forehead and smiled, like he’d just mastered a new trick. It was a nice smile. “But you should do as you told Bruce, and go get some rest.”

 

* * *

 

**WEDNESDAY MORNING**

Bedrest was worse than being grounded. At least when Dick had faced punishment, he’d been able to help out Pa Kent around the farm and feel useful. Now, he was useless, trapped in a quiet room with lights off and forbidden from exerting himself or even reading for more than thirty minutes at a time.

He tried to sleep through it, going to bed early and sleeping in through the morning, but there was only so much a person could sleep. He tried knitting, and that worked for a while, but once he got the hang of it again, he found himself bored without listening to anything.

Then he tried meditation, like Bruce had taught him, but his body couldn’t stay still and his mind was busy with the case at hand. When he finally set aside thoughts of the tornadoes, worse ones were lying in wait: his brain replaying his argument with Wally, over and over.

Why hadn’t he said anything? He could’ve explained himself, so easily, but he hadn’t said a thing. And then Wally had left.

He tried to shake off the guilt and sense of overwhelming failure, but it clung to him like wet sand. It was easier to fill his mind with the case, but he really just wanted to go _move_ , to run across rooftops and flip into alleyways and fight bad guys again. But he didn’t even know who he needed to fight.

The doctor had said no vigorous exercise, so Dick chose to interpret that as allowing for low-impact work. He could still stretch and lift without jostling his head or doing whatever it was they were afraid of—not that the Kents had a proper gym of any kind. Dick scrounged up some hefty volumes of literature from Clark’s shelves and used them as weights, wrapping them in sweatshirts like a stork’s bundles and then hanging them from his arms, then legs, as he moved through balancing poses.

That let him zone out a little, but after ten minutes, his idle brain started churning again, replaying events and linking from one thought to another without any discipline.

Tornadoes and stock markets and flying shingles and cooking with Wally.

And _fighting_ with Wally. And fighting with _Bruce_.

Bruce was impressed with him, though. _Impressed_.

But he’d disappointed Bruce to begin with.

Because he’d embarrassed Bruce in front of _Clark_.

That was really what all of this had been about. He and Bruce fought all the time and it never came to anything, but he’d been rude to Clark and Bruce had snapped.

Though _wow_ , he’d apparently misread _that_ relationship. He’d been so sure—obviously gossipy celebrity rumors couldn’t be trusted, but there was other evidence: the appraisal and approval in Bruce’s eyes when he thought no one could see him looking at Clark, Clark’s jealous reaction to any of Bruce’s dates, the frequency of Clark’s visits, the way Bruce was so normal and relaxed when he was around… But Dick had been wrong, assuming Clark’s response could be trusted.

Of _course_ Clark could be trusted. Clark wasn’t a liar. Though Clark himself said he didn’t always know.

Maybe that was just being friends. What would Dick know about it? He hadn’t had a proper best friend since leaving the circus. And who had been his best friend then? Raya? And that… Dick’s heart ached. He’d snuck out of Gotham only two months ago to see Raymond’s funeral after the car accident, but he’d hid the whole time, too afraid to see Raya again, to say goodbye again. Some friend he was.

There were kids he liked well enough at school, but he had to lie to them constantly, so it wasn’t much of a real friendship, living that way. Bruce really _was_ his best friend, but Bruce was also the guy who had signed his permission slips for school and set his bedtime. He’d say Clark was his best friend, but Clark was _Bruce’s_.

But when he closed his eyes and reached across for his toes, he saw Wally there, on that floor, tinkering, running his pale freckled hands through his ginger hair and biting his lip in concentration, and Dick grew even more restless.

He’d finally had a shot at a real friend, a real _best_ friend, and he’d messed it up.

He needed to fix it. If he fixed the friendship, he wouldn’t be distracted by it anymore, and then he could get to the bottom of this tornado mess.

And maybe Wally was the key to solving it, anyway. Tornadoes were exactly the kind of thing a villain would leverage against a speedster, and Wally himself _had_ taken on the Weather Wizard, one of the few supervillains capable of this kind of attack.

Dick dropped into a ragdoll stretch and tried to clear his mind once again—focus on the breath, in for eight, hold, out for six—but he only made it through two exhalations before he gave up. He _had_ to call Wally. He had to try.

Iris West’s number wasn’t hard to find through a quick search, and he assumed that a mid-afternoon call would bypass Iris and go directly to Wally, so it was as good a time as ever.

He picked up the phone and dialed.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

And then it clicked to a line. “Hello,” a pleasant soprano voice answered. “Iris West speaking.”

Just his luck. He mustered what etiquette lessons he’d learned and tried to apply them to the scenario without giving his name. “Good afternoon, Miss West. Is Wally available? This is…” Not Dick Grayson. “His friend Rob, from Kansas.”

“Kansas? How does Wally have a friend from Kansas?”

Dick tapped his fingers against the wall. “Oh, we, um. Haven’t actually met in person. I’m going to the same science camp this summer, and we met online, but I had a question that seemed… easier to call.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. Something tapped the phone, and she called out, “Wally! Rob from Kansas is calling for you!”

Silence.

“Don’t be rude,” Iris whispered. She said something else that Dick couldn’t make out, and then—

Wally’s voice: “No! No way I’m talking to that freakshow!”

Dick felt like someone had torn him into shreds and run him through a blender.

“Rob, you there?” Iris was back on the line. “Wally is, uh, just jumping into the shower right now and can’t talk. I’ll have him give you a call back in an hour or so, if that’s all right?”

Well, that was just great. If Wally wouldn’t answer, that meant he’d have to go to Flash himself to find out about the Weather Wizard, but Flash was liable to just shut him down. _Let the League handle it_. Then again, maybe Wally and Barry weren’t his only means of following his lead.

“It’s okay,” said Dick, resigned. “Actually, um, Miss West?”

“Yes?”

“Wally said you’re a, uh, crime reporter. Is that right?”

“Ye-es…”

“Maybe you can answer my question. Y’see,” Dick said, stepping into the role of Rob, science camp kid from Kansas, “we just had a rash of twisters out here, and I’ve got this terrible anxiety about them, y’know? My Pa says Central City should be safer, but you’ve got that Weather Wizard there, I hear. Pa says the Flash got him locked away, but… is that true? Is he _really_ in prison?”

“Oh—well, yes, as far as I know. But even when there _is_ someone like that on the loose, Flash keeps us good and safe here.” She sounded young but kind, with the type of confidence that spread to others. “You don’t need to worry. Do you have family you’ll be staying with while you’re here? Maybe we can all get together some day after camp—would that be fun? I could—”

She cut off and seemed to whisper, “Wally! I was talking!”

“Robin? Yeah, hi. I said _not_ to call.”

“You didn’t say that, actually,” Dick noted. “But listen—Wally—I need your help.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’ve been investigating all this, and the tornadoes aren’t natural, okay? Remember Weather Wizard? It’s like that. You have to help me stop him.”

“No, _Rob_. I _really_ don’t,” he said.

The line clicked and Dick was left holding the phone, at a loss. He slumped down into the chair underneath the phone, holding the receiver off the hook. He had meant to fix a friendship, but barring that, he’d assumed Wally would still respond to a call for help. Dick would. The mission came above petty arguments. But either Wally didn’t think so, or Wally didn’t think the argument was petty at all. Either way, Dick had lost his only friend and his best chance at an ally.

A staccato dial-tone shook him out of his thoughts, and he hung the phone back up. 

The tornadoes _were_ going to hit tomorrow.There was no way he could just wait around for the Justice League to act.But then, it was going to take a lot more than a half-baked plan if he was going to have a chance of doing this himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pa knows you don't RUN INTO A TORNADO for NO REASON. Are you LISTENING, ZACK SNYDER?
> 
> *ahem*
> 
> Moving into the final act... updates may be a little more sporadic the rest of this week, but I'll try to make sure to keep them coming at least every other day!


	11. Pride

 

**WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON**

“Dick?”

Dick leaned over a map that he had folded out onto the kitchen table, but he raised his eyes to see Ma Kent, standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Wally won’t help,” he said.

“I’m sorry to hear it. But Clark said _he’d_ help, didn’t he?”

“He’s with Bruce. He’ll come when they’re done.” Dick turned back to the map. “But someone needs to deal with this, and it might as well be me. Whoever’s doing this isn’t going to stop here. They’ll keep going, all the way, into Montana, all the way to Canada. And it won’t just hurt farmers. It’ll make food expensive, and all kinds of people will suffer. I can’t wait. I think… I think I can do this.”

“On your own?”

Dick nodded. “I can’t fight a tornado, but I can fight a person. If I can figure out who and where he is, I can do it.”

“ _Can_ you?”

If he could get to the guy, face-to-face, then he should be able to. But someone that could create tornadoes probably had a few other tricks up their sleeve. And going into a fight with an unknown enemy was a risky move.

“I have to try,” he said. “Even if it’s just buying time, or pushing him into view so the League takes this more seriously… but even if I’m all there is, I have to try. _Especially_ if I’m all there is. I can’t just sit here and wait for more people to get hurt, not if I can stop it.”

Ma Kent smiled, a strange mix of pride and sadness in her eyes. Her fingers brushed his chin as she said, “You’re a lot like him, you know. Clark.”

Dick’s heart stopped. And then it started back, pounding harder than he knew. Like _him_. He was used to being compared with Bruce, but no one had ever compared him to Clark before. To _Superman_. A stupid grin threatened to pull across his face, but he bit it back. “I don’t know about that,” he said, in a lame attempt at modesty.

She nodded shakily. “You know, before we found him, I’d given up on having a child of our own. And then he was there, an answer to our prayers, and I’ll never stop being thankful for that. But then I’ve always… well… His DNA aside, his _careers_ mean that we’ll probably never have grandchildren. But I pictured them, anyway. Little boys and girls with blue eyes and big hearts.”

Dick smiled at the thought of little Clarks. Though, would having a family keep Clark away from him and Bruce? The thought of it tasted sour, and the sourness of the thought was even worse. He couldn’t be _jealous_ of someone’s kids, especially ones that didn’t even exist.

“Saving the world’s kept him from that,” Ma Kent continued, “but then he met Bruce and you, and maybe that’s the silver lining of it. I know you have your own family, but you’re _just_ what I always hoped for. And I hope you come back, even if it’s not for a punishment or to track down some bad guy.”

“I…” Dick couldn’t process her words fast enough. _What she’d hoped for_. What’d she’d hope for was grandchildren. With blue eyes and big hearts. “You think _I’m_ —?”

“Gosh, Dick, don’t mind me. You need to go catch a supervillain, not listen to a silly old lady—”

Dick threw his arms around her and held on, harder than he meant to. He’d adjusted all his expectations to Bruce’s manner of affection. He’d never prepared for something like this. “You’re not silly. You’re the best grandma I could ever have.”

She wrapped her own arms around him and pressed a kiss on the top of his head. “Now, what can we do to help you?”

Dick pulled back and dropped his sentimental smile into a concentrated frown. “I need to know where he might hit next,” he said. “And, um. I _might_ need a ride to get there.”

Ma Kent laughed. “Let’s start on the where, first. Show me what you’ve got.”

She sat down with him at the table, and they worked together through the map, narrowing down the possible regions for a future attack. Certain areas didn’t meet the profile—not enough winter wheat grown, or weather conditions that made for a different harvest time or a weak crop, or too many built-up residential areas.

While Ma went to fetch a notepad to make a list of the most likely targets, the doorbell rang.

“I’ve got it!” shouted Dick..

He jumped up and ran to the door. Throwing it open, he found himself facing a lot of very bright red. And right at eye level, a yellow lightning bolt over a white circle.

“Flash!”

Dick wasn’t wearing a mask or sunglasses or anything. He snatched a piece of junk mail from the table by the door and covered his face.

“Um, hi!” he added, somewhat muffled by the shield of mail.

“Afternoon, Robin. Mind if we come in?” Flash asked.

“We?” Dick peeked around the edge of the paper, almost afraid of what he’d see. Sure enough, Wally was there, next to him, glaring. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

He opened the door to let Barry and Wally in, though as soon as they stepped in, Ma Kent was back in the hallway. “Sorry, Flash, just gonna sneak right past ya,” she said, slipping between the guests and the hallway table. She slipped the old sunglasses into his hand and closed the door behind them.

“Lemonade’s on the counter, but I’m afraid I have to go help Jonathan with some of the cleanup from the storm. You boys just holler if you need anything.”

“Well, Robin,” she said with a cheerful smile, “looks like help has arrived.”

 

* * *

 

Ma Kent wasted no time bringing out snacks onto the island counter and pouring lemonade for everyone, but she did waste time catching up with Flash about all kinds of inane questions—baseball and Iris and the run over. Dick clenched his teeth through the necessary pleasantries, but he could only bear so much Midwestern chit-chat. Of course, the one time the weather was actually a conversation worth having, it didn’t make it into the routine.

Wally didn’t seem as keen on small talk either, but he was happy enough stuffing his face and acting like Dick didn’t exist.

Finally, Ma Kent excused herself to go help Pa with clean-up from the tornado, and Dick jumped to business.

“I take it Superman gave you my message?”

Flash turned from waving goodbye back to Dick. “Yeah. Yeah, he did. And I got Iris’s message, too… Clever—but _don’t_ drag her into this again She’s not part of this.”

“I was _trying_ to call Kid Flash, not Iris.”

“That’s the thing, Robin. You should’ve come to _me_ , not Kid Flash. And Iris is smart—you don’t need to give her extra fodder to connect any dots and put her in danger.”

Dick held back an eye roll, since he couldn’t really judge Flash’s handling of secret identity business while refusing to give his own name. “I’m sorry, Mister Allen. You’re right. I got a concussion and honestly wasn’t thinking straight. Batman taught me better than that.”

Flash looked overly sympathetic now. “I didn’t mean to be so hard on you, Robin. I just—be careful with Iris.”

“Got it. And? What do you think is going on?”

“And you were right. Weather Wizard isn’t in prison—his _hologram_ is, courtesy of Mirror Master. I don’t know what’s in it for him, but—”

“A cut of the profit,” Dick supplied. “Or just the satisfaction of humiliating you.”

“Gre-eat, humiliating me.” Flash sighed. “So. What are we looking at? Wally says you’ve been investigating.”

Dick looked to Wally, who crossed his arms and looked away. So that’s how it was going to be. Great.

He pointed to the map on the kitchen table. “So the last attacks have been here, here, and here,” he said, laying glass saucers over each of the regions. “Thursday 7PM, Saturday 8AM, Sunday 6PM, Tuesday 4PM. That’s thirty-seven, thirty-four, forty-six hour intervals.”

“He’s probably being careful to avoid a pattern,” Flash said. “Which means we could be looking at the next strike anytime tomorrow, and that’s hoping he doesn’t pick up the pace.”

“Right.”

“Have you checked the forecast? We should find out if he was striking on days when tornado conditions were already anticipated or not.”

“Storms were predicted for each, but not tornadoes.”

Flash leaned back and smiled. “Nice work, Robin.”

“Thanks. Also… Superman says that last time, there was a bank robbery in Central City right before they hit.”

“Yeah. I—I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I can do a lot, but I can’t be in two places at once. And Captain Cold was out of control. I couldn’t leave or put Kid Flash in the middle of it.”

“See, I think that was the point.”

“You’re saying this was _coordinated_?”

Dick nodded. “You said yourself that Mirror Master was somehow covering for Weather Wizard, right? Why couldn’t Captain Cold be in on it, too?”

Flash groaned and wiped his face with his hands. “Because they’re all a bunch of jerks, and working together takes social skills?”

“Captain Cold has social skills,” Wally countered. “ _Lots_ of people like him.”

“Lots of people? What?”

Wally shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, the other rogues look up to him. Even normal people like him, though. Kids at school, and stuff. He never kills anyone or anything, and he has a cool outfit.”

“ _Ice_ cool,” Dick added. He couldn’t resist. Wally made a disgusted face, but Flash laughed under his breath.

“If Cold is abetting this… tornado situation,” Flash continued, “ _that’s_ hurting someone. These are dangerous. That’s not his usual M.O.”

Dick leaned against the chair and looked down at the map again. “They _are_ mostly targeting crops, not people. But maybe he doesn’t know. What if this goes beyond any of them? Someone else could be behind it.”

“What’s the motive? To destroy some wheat? Turn the countryside against me?”

“To manipulate the commodities market,” Dick answered.

“The _what_?” Wally jumped in.

Flash ignored the question and pressed on. “If that’s true, then you’re right: that doesn’t sound like _any_ of them.”

Wally crossed his arms. “It won’t matter who _’s_ behind any of it unless we can find Weather Wizard and stop him from hitting again, so maybe we should focus on _that_ instead.”

His tone and his glare gave his words a combative edge, but that didn’t make them wrong.

“Kid Flash is right,” Dick said. “We need to predict his next strike and beat him there.”

“ _We_?” Flash looked between the boys. “No, no. You two aren’t _coming_.”

“Well, maybe Robin isn’t, because he’s _grounded_ , but I’m coming.”

Dick fixed a cold glare in Wally’s direction. “I’m actually _not_ grounded anymore. I stayed here to solve this case.”

Flash's eyes narrowed. “Even so.”

“Flash, come _on_ ,” Wally whined.

“You have to let us come,” Dick agreed. “Both of us. This isn’t a one-person job—even if you leave Central City to the cops and warn them to expect trouble tomorrow.”

“Superman told me _very_ specifically that he would be back before the next tornadoes hit, and that _you_ , Robin, are supposed to stay home.”

Wally cocked his head. “Is Superman your _boss_?”

“No,” Flash answered, “but I’d rather wait for him to back me up instead of putting you two in danger.”

“Fine,” said Dick.

“ _Fine_?” Wally glared over at him. “Are you _serious_?”

“If Superman can help, I’d rather have him there, too,” Dick ceded. “But he’s working with Batman and they closing in something big. Like, international-mafia-and-terrorism kind of big. We can’t call on them if we can handle it ourselves—so if they’re still not done by noon tomorrow, we’re coming. Deal?”

Flash tapped his fingers on the kitchen chair and looked between the boys. “Fine. But first, I need to find our guy.”

Dick returned to the map, pointing out the possible locations he had identified with the Kents’ help. There were ten counties, altogether, that they thought might be targets, and no way to know where Weather Wizard would be hiding within his chosen location.

That didn’t deter the Flash, though. “I’ll search them all,” he said.

“All?”

“Yeah. Wally, start canvassing these parts. Help with repairs, see if anyone saw anything suspicious, but come back here until I figure this out. Any information is good information.”

“Back here?”

“You got it.” Flash shot finger guns at Wally and then winked at Dick. “Back in a flash!”

Dick stifled a laugh.

Wally groaned in his wake. “I hate when he does that.”

“He does that a lot?”

“Every time. It’s like—” Wally’s face hardened. “Nope. We aren’t just _good_ now. I should go. Gotta canvass or whatever, like Barry said.”

“Wait, Wally!” Dick reached a hand past the doorway. “Just let me explain.”

Wally stared down at his hand, considering. “I don’t want to talk. I’m not here for you. I’m here on Flash business.”

“Just listen, then. Give me ten minutes.”

“Fine. You better talk this time, and not just stand there looking like an idiot like before.”

“I’ll talk. Hold on, I gotta get something.” He ran upstairs, three steps at once, grabbed the copy of the email he’d sent Bruce, and folded it into his pocket. Soon, he was back in the kitchen.

“That was a _whole_ minute. You’re down to nine.”

“Want a soda?”

Wally sneered. “I want you to get to the point.”

“I know. But you’re a guest at the Kents. They’d want me to offer.”

Wally looked back and forth between the fridge and Dick. “Fine. Yes. But I’m not pausing the clock.”

Shrugging, Dick pulled out two glass bottles of cola and handed one to Wally before pulling a container of homemade Chex mix out of the cabinets as well, since they’d already eaten through the snacks Ma Kent had brought out before. He put it between them on the counter as a peace offering and took a deep breath.

“Those _weren’t_ my opinions of you,” he started.

“Sure sounded like them,” said Wally, trying and failing to pop off the bottle-cap on the door’s strike panel, like Dick had taught him.

“It was an assignment for Batman.” Dick looked down and began wringing his hands, turning his palm red with his thumb. “I had to figure out why he didn’t want me to meet you.”

“If you’re trying to make this better, you’re doing a crap job.”

Dick set his hands on the counter and looked up. “ _I_ wanted to meet you, but he wanted me to wait. That’s why I was grounded.”

“You got grounded for wanting to meet _me_?” Wally laughed, a nervous insecure kind of laugh, and set the unopened soda back on the counter in front of Dick, trading the drink for the container of Chex and pretzels. He shoved a handful in his mouth and said, “I’m not sure I’m worth getting grounded over.”

“Well, that’s what happened.” Dick took the two bottles, grabbed a spoon from the counter to pop open both, and then handed one back to Wally. “I argued with him about it, and he said that to get _un_ -grounded, I had to put myself in his shoes and understand why he might have concerns, or whatever. That’s why I wrote that. It was before I ever met you.”

Wally blinked, crunching the Chex mix. “So…” He swallowed. “ _Batman_ is the one who thinks I’m a reckless amateur that’s going to die within a year?”

“Yeah, though Batman thinks _everyone_ ’s a reckless amateur,” Dick noted. “I mean. Compared to him, we all kind of are.”

“ _We all_? All who?”

“Me. Flash. Green Lantern.”

Wally scoffed. “You think _you’re_ on their level?”

“Yeah.” Dick narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “Yeah, you know what? I am. They have powers and they’re older than me, sure. But I’ve been doing this longer than they’ve even _had_ powers.”

“Flash isn’t an _amateur_ ,” Wally countered. “And Green Lantern is part of a whole… space… cop… organization… thing. They’re just as legit as Batman. More legit.”

Dick felt a defensive urge stirring. “No way. Batman trained for a _decade_ before he even became Batman. And he doesn’t split his time with a job or going to school or whatever. He’s Batman _all the time_.

“What, like it’s his full-time job? Being a vigilante pays his mortgage?”

Dick opened his mouth and closed it. He had said too much already.

“Fine—if he’s Batman _all the time_ , then why is it so important to protect your stupid identities?”

“It doesn’t matter—none of this is the point!”

“What’s the point, then?”

“That list you read was just me _imagining_ what Batman might think. I didn’t know you yet—but I didn’t mean any of it either. I didn’t even send it. You showed up, and I decided to… stay grounded, I guess.”

Wally eyed him warily. “You didn’t send it?”

“No.”

“But you said you were _un-grounded_. How, then?”

Dick looked out the window, out at the nothing that stretched as far as he could see.

“I wrote a new list.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the folded paper. “Here,” he said.

Wally looked down at the paper, back at him, and back at the paper. Finally, he took it in his hands and unfolded it.

“This list looks the same,” he concluded. “ _He is untrained, with no relevant prior experience, blah blah blah_.”

“It’s not the same. Keep reading.”

Wally cleared his throat and continued. Dick didn’t need help remembering what the email said:

  1. He is untrained, with no relevant prior experience, but highly visible and therefore a prime target for villains in search of a way to manipulate the Flash. This dangerous combination means there is a high chance he is killed within the year. _Therefore, it is even more important that he has a friend who is properly trained and can teach him how to fight safely._
  2. His powers are untested and are the result of an amateur experiment, which means that he is a dangerous to both himself and others. They may cause negative side-effects to those around him. Until we know more, I should keep my distance. _But letting our fears trump our compassion is the opposite of what Batman or Robin stand for. If we let fear guide us, we should just hang up our capes and give up._
  3. He manipulated the experiment conditions to gain powers. This suggests that he is reckless, immature, and unable to appreciate the value of non-powered skills. _However, his mechanical engineering skill and understanding of physics suggest that at the least, he does know the importance of non-powered skills, and at best, that he could be one of the greatest scientific minds of my generation. Also, if he did place himself in a dangerous situation with the hope of gaining powers, that only proves that he is a hero like the rest of us, willing to risk his life so that he could help people._
  4. Flash and Kid Flash have not yet earned a level of trust to know our secret identities. This makes it unwise to spend too much time in their company and thereby risk exposing confidential information. _But the only way someone can earn trust is if you give them a chance to. Superman didn’t know your identity either, once, but working together, you realized you can trust him. Kid Flash deserves a chance to show that he can be trusted._
  5. Being friends with a metahuman could damage my training or influence me to follow his foolish example and try to acquire powers myself. _Except_ _I don’t want superpowers. You told me, once, that someday I’ll be in the Justice League. That someday I might lead it. If I’m going to ever do that, I need to be able to figure this stuff out. For myself, and in my own way. And if I can make friends with kids like this now, then when he and I join the Justice League, by that time, maybe it’ll be different. I’ll have grown up dealing with the same stuff as them, knowing how they think, how they fight, what their hangups are, and how to motivate them. And they’ll know the same about me. I think we could really do something special someday. We could have a League that works like you and I do. Seamlessly. Like family. But if that’s going to happen someday, it needs to start today. It needs to start with me and Kid Flash._ ”



Wally looked up from the paper and stared at Dick as if he were a puzzle in need of solving. “You sent this to _Batman_?”

Dick nodded.

“The greatest scientific mind of your generation, huh?”

“I said you _could_ be,” Dick corrected. “But yeah, maybe.”

Wally blinked, hard, like he wasn’t sure how to process the compliment. “Barry’s the scientist. Not me.”

“Hence the _generation_ bit.”

“But you said I’d join the League.” He looked down and reread part of the letter. “That wasn’t _maybe_. You said _when._ _When_ we join the Justice League.”

“Well.” Dick shifted his feet. “Yeah, obviously. Why _wouldn’t_ you?”

“I don’t know. I’m just…” Wally shook his head in disbelief. “The Justice League. That’s… those guys are _good_.”

“ _You’re_ good.” He stood tall now, reminding himself just as much as Wally. “And in time? You’ll be _better_.”

Wally furrowed his brow and looked out the window, like it was easier to stare at some bird flying by than acknowledge his own potential. “How do you figure that?”

“Batman says seventy-five percent of skill comes from practice,” Dick explained. “Experience. Flash has been Flash for what? A year? Batman’s been protecting Gotham for four. By the time we’re _twenty_ , we’ll have more experience than they do now. We’ll have grown up doing this.” Dick folded his arms across his chest with not a small amount of pride. “We’ll be better.”

A smile like a secret pulled on Wally’s face. “You think?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Okay. But I’m not agreeing to this you-leading thing. I know you think you’re hot shit and all that, but… I’m not _taking orders_ from you.”

“Whatever you say,” Dick said, laughing. “As long as you don’t hate me.”

“Yeah, I guess I don’t hate you.” Wally nodded to the upper story. “You got your costume up there?”

“Yeah… Why?”

“Wanna come help visit some tornado victims? You can get info while I fix up their damage and all that.”

“Yes!” Finally. He could be Robin again—and not even need to break his doctor’s orders. It’s not like talking to some people was against the rules. But then his face fell. “Won’t I just slow you down?”

“Nah,” Wally said with a shrug. “Not if I give you a lift. So… you in?”

Dick grinned wide. “Let’s hit the road.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Episode credits roll to "Going Up Around the Bend".](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DX3o1O8ZsTw)
> 
>  
> 
> Almost there!


	12. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! I was moving Thurs-Sat, so things have been totally hectic, and that coincided with needing to do some serious revisions a few times over on this chapter, which is a _pretty_ major one. I hope it is worth the wait!
> 
> (CW some mentions of abusive parents)
> 
> (Another Warning: "Wednesday Evening" scene contains spoilers for _Top Gun_ \-- if you need to preserve your Top-Gun-innocence despite the movie being both 30 years old and not that amazing, just scroll to the last lines of the scene after Ma brings them popcorn.)

 

**WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON**

By all logic, a piggy-back ride going as fast as Bruce’s Aston Martin should have been a terrible experience, full of dead bugs and windburn, but Wally had been right—his powers weren’t just running fast. It wasn’t like being on a motorcycle. It was more like a bobsled, or a carnival ride that spun you so fast that the floor dropped out. His stomach flipped, every hair stood on end, and the world seemed to warp and blur around them.

It was, in fact, a lot like throwing yourself off a fly bar and pulling into the fastest somersault in recorded history. And Dick, unsurprisingly, loved it.

The visits in between the sprints, though, were much less exciting. After two hours, Wally had patched up barns, collected debris, repaired a few combines and balers, and generally earned back some of the good will that had wavered after Flash’s absence during the storm. Meanwhile, Dick had collected little to no useful information about the person behind the tornadoes.

“Boy, I’m starving,” whined Wally, dropping Dick off at the edge of a property on the far end of the county. “Last one before dinner?”

Dick laughed. “You just ate like ten slices of banana bread two houses ago.”

“Yeah, I also _rebuilt an entire barn_ while you were sitting on the porch having a chat, Shortpants.”

“All right. Last one. We can hit the rest in the morning.”

The house looked mostly undamaged, though some out-buildings had taken damage, much like the Kents.

As they walked up to the porch, a young woman with a round friendly face opened the door. She looked incredibly familiar, but Dick wasn’t able to place her before she turned around and shouted, “Ma! You gotta see this! The Flash Kid is here—”

“It’s Kid Flash,” Wally corrected. “And this is Robin—Batman’s partner. We’re just here to see if you need any help after the tornadoes.”

The young woman’s mother came forward, carrying a big baby in her arms. She foisted the child to the side and held out a hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, Kid Flash! I’m Becky. Becky Reed, and my daughter Allie. And this is… who again?”

“Robin. From Gotham,” Dick clarified.

The woman shook her head. “I missed that. You mean like Batman and Robin? You’re _that_ Robin?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wally interceded. “That’s the one.”

Dick gestured to his colorful ensemble, complete with yellow cape and short leotard, and tried to avoid Wally’s glance for fear that he’d break out into laughter— _no, ma’am, I’m some other Robin from Gotham who dresses like this_. Instead, he kept his eyes forward and said, “Ms. Reed, we have some concerns about these tornadoes, so—”

“I thought the Batman hunted down serial killers and that kind of thing.”

“He does, ma’am, but in this situation—”

“Ooh, I get it!” She beamed. “You’re like a little Justice League!”

Dick forced a smile, while Wally said, “Yep, that’s it, exactly. We’re here to help.”

“Sure, sure. My husband’s out now, fixing up the fencing that got blown off. You head out and he’ll tell you what’s what.”

Wally gave a nod and headed out the door, while Dick placed a hand on the counter. “Ma’am, did you see anything suspicious or out of the ordinary in the days leading up to the storm, or since? Any strangers passing through town, or odd vehicles, anything like that?”

“I can’t say I have,” she said, “but we’ve been so focused on harvest that I’m not the best to tell you.”

“If you could think of _anything_ , anything at all.”

The younger woman popped back into the room. “That rich boy’s been staying with the Kents,” she said.

Dick looked back. Of course—she’d been at the grain elevator. He swallowed, hoping she wouldn’t connect two young black-haired teens from Gotham. He hadn’t met that many people in the area since arriving, and it would be just his luck if one of the very few recognized him.

“He’s from Metropolis or something—some friend of Clark’s.”

Dick exhaled. She didn’t know.

“No, Gotham,” the mother corrected. “He’s Bruce Wayne’s kid. Wayne’s from Gotham, right?”

Okay. That was fine. Control the narrative. “That’s right, Mrs. Reed, which is why I’m here. Batman’s concerned… criminal cowards like to target relatives of the rich and powerful—and Wayne’s a popular target. So it would be really helpful to know if you’ve seen anything else that’s been off-kilter this week.”

The mother and daughter looked between each other. “I don’t think that was anything,” Mrs. Reed said, responding to some unspoken point.

Allie shook her head. “It _could_ be.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Reed, handing the baby off to her daughter, “my husband saw a truck pull up to a barn that’s been empty for years, the day before the storms. Truck left the morning after, but the barn got hit in the storms, so that figures.”

Dick knit his brows. “Did anyone see it get hit?”

Allie screwed up her face in confusion, and Mrs. Reed shook her head. “The storm chasers reported it damaged, that’s all, with no one inside.”

“No one living, at least,” said Allie.

“Allie!”

“What? It’s true!”

Dick nodded. “Do you two know where I can find this barn?”

Mrs. Reed nodded and grabbed a piece of paper. She began describing directions, drawing out a map.

Midway through her explanation, Wally returned from outside.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Dick, flashing his best hero smile. “Heroes like us couldn’t do anything without the help of good citizens like you!”

“No problem, Robin. Hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

 

* * *

 

The barn wasn’t much to look at. It was old and would’ve been in need of painting had half of it not been crushed in the tornado. Still, Dick and Wally crept in.

“What’re we looking for?” asked Wally.

“Anything. Footprints, residue, anything that might’ve been left behind.”

“Roger.” Wally went into action, blurring from one spot to another, until he had covered an entire corner. “Looks like some stuff was dragged in—or out—or both,” he noted, pointing out parallel tracks scratched into the soft wooden planks of the floor. “Nothing else, though. This place is spotless.”

Dick shook his head. “There’s always something.” He knelt down, squinting at the floor, the wall, and—

Something creaked in the barn. Dick’s neck tingled. Before he could identify the problem, the creaking turned into a snapping. Dick threw himself into a ball on the ground, covering the back of his neck with his hands, bracing for falling debris.

But instead of impact from above, Dick was hit from the side. And instead of blacking out, he was blurring through the world—held by Wally, who skidded across the packed earth and threw himself over Dick. Thunder boomed in Dick’s ears, and dust blew out into their faces.

Wally jumped up and held out a hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” said Dick, pulling himself up and dusting himself off. “Yeah, I’m…”

The barn lay there, shattered into a million pieces, with heavy beams sticking out as reminders of the weight it had once borne. The spot where Dick had knelt only a second ago was now completely buried under rubble.

“Sorry about your crime scene. Can’t really get any evidence now, can we?”

“No, but if I’d’ve been under there… best case scenario, I’d be out of commission. Worst case…” Dick shook his head in shock. “You might have saved my life.  _Thank_ you,” he added, trapping Wally in a hug.

Wally shrugged awkwardly from under the embrace. “Yeah, well. Superhero. It’s _kind_ of what we do.”

“ _Still_.  Thanks. For having my back.” Dick stepped away.  He wasn't sure how to express the extent of his gratitude, or where the depth of it was coming from.  Saving people  _was_ Wally's job, and it wasn't Dick's first close brush with a possible death.  But maybe that was it. He'd come close enough to death-by-rubble once this week, and emerged from it decidedly in favor of living and being in full-functioning capacity.

He looked back at the remains of the barn, the only lead they’d found all day. And now they _were_ pretty much out of luck: there was no way to even confirm if Weather Wizard had even been there. But that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

“Weather Wizard’s covering his tracks,” he concluded. “If he’s the one who controlled the tornadoes, of course he would hit his own base on the way out—limit any suspicion about why he’s leaving and hide evidence at the same time. But the truck and the setup and complete clean-out of the space… that would account for the two-day gap between each attack.”

“We think he’s setting up in his new digs tonight?”

“Yeah. Which that means there’s a chance of Flash seeing him, if he gets there at the right time.”

“Hope so,” said Wally. “So… you ready to go back now? All this investigating would be pretty worthless if I drop dead from starvation.”

Dick rolled his eyes. He hated turning in before getting more of a solid case, but he wasn’t about to continue on his own, much less call Ma for a ride. “Yeah, I guess. Let’s go.”

He reached up to Wally’s neck and jumped up, and they took off. They sped across the county, up and down the gently sloping roads, around the corners, past blurs of brown fields of winter wheat and green fields of spring wheat and corn, but when they stopped, they weren’t at the Kents’.

Or rather, they weren’t at the house. Wally had stopped in the middle of a field about a mile out from the farmhouse.

Dick let go and dropped to the ground. “Uh, Wally?”

Wally looked around. “I think the Kents are that way,” he said.

“Yeah, they are.” But that didn’t explain why Wally wasn’t taking them there, unless he was worried about secret identities. “It won’t look suspicious to visit them though, since we stopped everywhere else.”

“That’s not it.”

“There another reason you stopped?”

Wally shrugged and started walking in the direction he’d pointed. “I don’t know. I guess I could use a cool-down.”

“Okay,” said Dick. In all the time he’d known Wally—which, granted, hadn’t been that long, despite it feeling like lifetimes— _needing a cool-down_ had never come up. There was something else going on, but Dick didn’t want to pry too hard.

They turned right, cutting through the harvested fields of jagged wheat stalks that crunched under their feet. The wind, roaring yesterday, was completely still now, and the sun beat down on them, baking them in its heat. Wally pulled his mask back around his face and wiped sweat from his neck.

“It _is_ disgusting out here,” Dick observed.

Wally looked over and squinted. “You’re in like, half the amount of clothes as me. Less than half. Stop whining.”

“Yeah, but your mask isn’t glued onto your face. I’m surprised I haven’t sweat it off.”

“That’ll leave an interesting tan.” Wally made a mask out of his fingers and held them over his face. “I’m not Robin! I’m just some kid who’s his height and weight and complexion, with a tan in the exact shape of Robin’s mask! Holy coincidence, Batman!”

Dick rolled his eyes, but Wally wasn’t wrong—it was good he’d been inside most of the time, because he’d never really thought about that being an issue before. He’d have to say he’d gone on a skiing vacation, maybe, but that wouldn’t account for the even tan on his legs, or the patchy spots of his arms. They were sticky, too, under the gloves, and once they were out of sight, he yanked them off. The air, however hot and humid, was light and refreshing compared with the hot leather and padding. With his fingers free, Dick ran a hand through his hair to wick it away from his brow and found it burning hot under his touch.

He opened his mouth to say something about the curse of having black hair in summer and the virtues of working after sundown, but when he glanced over at Wally, he fell quiet. Wally’s face was pinched in concentration.

“Hey—I wasn’t totally honest before,” said Wally.

Dick cocked his head. “When before?”

“When I told you I was in Central City for the science camp. That’s true, but that’s not the real reason.”

“Is… being Kid Flash not the real reason?”

Wally shook his head. “Nah, I can get from Blue Valley to Central City, easy.”

Dick waited for more, but Wally just kept walking and looked away.

“So?”

Wally puffed out a long exhalation. “My parents suck. Like, I said they sucked before but. They _really_ suck. During the school year, I have clubs and study groups and stuff as an excuse to keep my distance, but in the summer… nada. So Aunt Iris invited me out to Central City, to stay with her instead. I found the science camp afterwards.”

“When you say they really suck—”

“I mean I _do_ wish I had a tragic backstory like you or Barry. No disrespect. I just.” Wally stopped walking. He covered his face with his hands and then slowly wiped them down, just like Barry had done. “It’s not fair. Barry’s dad got arrested, you know? For doing nothing. His mom, your parents, they were good people, and they died. But people like my dad… they just keep going. Where’s the justice in _that_?”

“You don’t mean that,” said Dick, shaking his head. Kids his age said stuff like that a lot, and they never meant it. “You don’t know how much you love someone until they’re gone.”

“Yeah, I get that. But I think I’d rather miss him than hate him, you know?” He started to walk again, burning off the agitated energy and down-shifting his tone to something more reflective than angry. “Not that I’d ever hurt him or anything. But I sometimes I think, if I had a wish or something, I’d ask to switch my parents with the Allens.”

This wasn’t some on-the-fly fit of anger. Wally really meant it. He’d said he was jealous of Dick before, but Dick never thought he meant it like this. And Dick had _hit_ him. The fear in Wally’s face just after that, the way he flinched from Dick’s outstretched hand… the memory flashed in Dick’s mind, all too vividly.

“Wally—does he _hit_ you?”

“No. Not like, all the time or anything.” Wally shrugged. “It’s… you don’t have to worry. It’s not that bad. I’m fine, I’m safe, all that, whatever. He just sucks, that’s all. He was a bully when he was a kid and he just never stopped.”

Dick clenched his fists and tried to still his arms, which were trembling in anger. He forced himself to take a deep breath—Wally didn’t need anger right now. But it wasn’t _fine_ or _safe_ or _whatever_ to have a dad do that.

“I’m not telling you so you can feel bad,” Wally said, a sharpness in his voice.

“I know. Believe me, I know.” He did, all too well. No one ever knew how to react to his own tragedies, or Bruce’s, except with pity. But pity didn’t solve problems or help the person hurting. It only helped the person doing the pitying feel better about themselves. Pity was useless. He didn’t feel bad, though. He felt _angry_. No one could bring back his parents, but someone _could_ stop Wally’s dad from being horrible. But Wally hadn’t asked for anyone to solve his problems. He was just sharing them. Dick understood that, too. “I just…”

“I’m telling you because you’re my friend. And I don’t want to pretend.” He reached out a toe and nudged Dick in the knee. “Okay? I’m not asking for pity or help or anything.”

“Okay.” Dick forced a smile. “Hey, you know, after we get this guy and go home, you can always come to Gotham, if you need to get away for a few days or whatever.”

“What about Batman?”

“He’ll understand. And if you ever decide… listen, I know you aren’t asking me to fix your problems, but we have lawyers. Good ones, who know all about family kind of stuff. We could probably get you out of there and living with your aunt for good, if you ever want it. Just—say the word.”

“You have your own _lawyers_? Multiple?”

“Yeah.” Dick looked around. They were surrounded by wheat-fields, as far as he could see on three sides, and even the closest farmhouse was a long way off. Clark had told Lana his secret in a place like this, hadn’t he? Good as place as any to tell his own. Dick stopped walking and took a shaky breath. “Wally, I can trust you, right?”

He didn’t wait for Wally to turn his confused face into an answer. Instead, he pried off his mask and folded it in his hands.

“Uh, Robin?”

“My name’s not Robin. It’s—”

“You don’t have to—” Wally shook his head. “I know Batman doesn’t want me knowing. Even Barry doesn’t know. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” said Dick. “I’m tired of pretending all the time. I’m tired of wearing a mask, of calling you Wally but going by Robin. Robin’s not my real name. It’s Dick. Dick Grayson. I grew up in a circus. My parents were trapeze artists. I was, too, before they died during our show in Gotham and Bruce took me in.”

“Bruce?” A slow dawning recognition stretched across Wally’s face. “Bruce _Wayne_? Like, billionaire Bruce Wayne? He did adopt a circus kid, right? That’s _you_?”

“Well, not _adopted_ , but—”

“I thought you said _Batman_ took you in.”

Dick sucked air through his teeth, biting through the pain of the inevitable next question. “Yeah…”

“No…” Wally’s eyes went wide enough to pop. “Wait. No _._ _Seriously_?”

“You can’t tell _anyone_ ,” Dick said, grabbing Wally’s arms and hardening his face into the gravest he could make. “No one. Not even Barry. You understand? _No_ one.”

“No one, I swear.” Wally swallowed. “Believe me, I don’t want to get on Batman’s bad side. Does this mean—did he say you could tell me?”

Dick shook his head and let Wally’s arms go. It was almost too awful to admit aloud.

“I’ve _never_ told anyone that. Okay? But I want you to know… I trust you. I do. And you can trust me. And if you ever need to run somewhere, you just… run to Gotham, okay? Wayne Manor. It’s in Bristol, right outside of Gotham. The butler’s name is Alfred, and he’ll bring you in, even if I’m at school or out on patrol or something.”

“Bristol, sure,” said Wally, nodding as if the words meant anything. “Sorry, stop. _Rewind_. Your name is _Dick_?”

Dick laughed. “Seriously? That’s your takeaway?”

“Chyeah, _Dick_.”

“Great. Come on, I think I smell Missus Kent’s cooking.”

 

* * *

 

**WEDNESDAY EVENING**

Dinner was, in fact, almost ready by the time they reached the Kent farmhouse, with just enough time for them each to shower and wash away the sweat and grime from the day. Over the meal, Ma and Pa Kent were an avid audience for a recounting of the boys’ afternoon adventures, and afterwards, they let Dick and Wally off from any chores.

It was a good thing, too, because Dick’s concussion seemed to catch up with him all at once. He’d had a long, emotional day, with little time to process it all, and in hindsight, travel at superspeed probably was not on the list of doctor-approved activities. He wanted to plan for the possible fight the next day, but he couldn’t even think through the first steps of a plan before getting lost and needing to restart.

“Maybe we should just watch a movie,” Wally suggested.

Dick nodded, and they combed through the bookcase of the Kents’ movies.

“Hey, look, your favorite,” Wally said, tossing one at Dick. _Top Gun_. “It looks cheesy as heck.”

“It’s _not_ my favorite,” Dick clarified.

“Why? What’s your favorite?”

“Robin Hood.”

“Robin. Right. So… the one from the nineties? Or Disney?”

“Nah, Errol Flynn. Black and white.”

“No dice. They have _Men in Tights_ , though. How’s that?”

“It’ll do.”

They took over the living room, and Dick let the sounds and songs of the movie wash over him as he curled into the corner of the couch and closed his eyes, letting them rest. It was a good choice, after all, since he’d seen it before, and hearing Wally’s uncontrollable laughter was worth the price of admission. Ma and Pa Kent even joined in for the end, after they’d each finished their evening work.

As the credits rolled, the Kents stood up. “I think we’re headed to bed,” Ma said, “but you two are welcome to stay up, if you like.”

Wally nudged Dick’s knee with his toe and gave a look that was half _yes please_ and half _your call_.

Dick smiled up at Ma Kent, who was now standing right over him. “Yeah, if that’s all right?”

“Of course,” she said, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “But don’t stay up too late.”

He promised not to, they said their goodnights, and Wally put in _Top Gun_ after all. Five minutes in, Ma Kent had returned with a bowl of popcorn.

“Thought you might get hungry,” she said, handing the bowl to Wally.

He grinned up at her. “Thanks, Missus Kent. You’re the _best_.”

“Yeah,” Dick chimed in. “The best.”

“Well, thank you. Good night, boys.”

Dick didn’t need to watch this movie too closely, either, because Wally gave a running commentary throughout, which ended up being even funnier than _Men in Tights_. Dick ended up hiding his face behind a throw pillow half the time to muffle his laughter from the sleeping Kents.

However, Wally’s objections fell away as the tension in the movie grew more intense. For all his spot-on critical commentary, he was hooked to the blockbuster-action plot. Dick leaned back and drifted off, only waking back up when Wally shouted, “What the _WHAT_?” and knocked the popcorn bowl against him. “They can’t do that!” he said.

“Goose?” Dick mumbled.

“Yeah, _Goose_. He was the _best_ character in this stupid thing.”

“Yeah, sucks,” Dick said, blinking back awake. “But now Mav has to take responsibility and live into his potential, blah blah blah. Or he should. They let him off kind of light.”

“Wow. I am _offended_.”

Dick pushed himself up from the couch arm and reached for the popcorn bowl, scrounging for anything left over. There was nothing. “Yeah, B hates it too. He says there’s no real character development and it glorifies war or something.”

“B being _Bruce friggin’ Wayne_ ,” Wally whispered, shaking his head. “I still can’t get over that.”

“Yeah.” Dick yawned. “Pretty nuts, I guess.”

Wally turned himself on the couch and crossed his legs facing Dick, ignoring the movie altogether. “What’s it like? Living in a mansion and being famous and stuff?”

“The manor’s too big,” Dick said, keeping his voice low. “It’d need like ten people living there to feel right, but it’s just Bruce and Alfred—he’s the butler, but he raised Bruce. He’s basically family. It’s lonely, I guess. But we have lots of cool stuff.”

Dick went on, detailing the amenities of Wayne Manor, and then comparing them to life at Haly’s, and that opened a whole other line of conversation, until the credits rolled on the second movie.

“We should probably sleep,” Dick said. “Weather Wizard could strike early.”

“Yeah,” said Wally, finally yawning as well. “Okay. Do you think we’ll get to go? Superman’s bound to show up, isn’t he?”

Dick shrugged. “I thought B would call when they wrapped up the case. No call yet. So there’s a chance he’s tied up.”

“I’m not saying I hope he can’t come,” said Wally, “but I kind of hope he can’t come.” He got up, turned off the television, and ran the popcorn bowl back to the kitchen before returning to say, “Barry said he’d give them until noon, right? It’s 10:50 now.  So... thirteen hours.”

Dick dragged himself off the couch, feeling a bit dizzy again. “Yeah. I guess we’ll know soon. In the next thirteen hours, at most.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**THURSDAY MIDDAY (13 HOURS LATER)**

Thirteen hours to Dick seemed like a short time, especially since he needed to sleep through a lot of it, but Wally acted like it was the longest thirteen hours in his life.

By 11:45 am (thirteen and a half hours), Dick was full of conflicted feelings. He wanted Clark and Bruce to be finished with their work and safe. He also wanted them to not be able to make it, so he could be there without Batman trying to send him home. He and Wally changed into their uniforms and sat down on the stairway inside the Kent house, just in case, ready to leave at a second’s notice.

But then 11:50 came, and 11:55, and noon. No word from Bruce or Clark, but no Barry either.

“He runs late,” Wally explained.

Dick shook his head. “That makes _zero_ sense.”

Wally shrugged. “I guess if you never factor travel time in, it can happen.”

Dick bounced his foot on the lower stair, trying not to die of impatience. At least Wally was just as eager. That helped.

“So,” Dick said, “can you do all the crazy stuff Flash can do?”

“Not all of it,” said Wally. “’m still learning. Like… Flash can vibrate himself _right through_ a solid surface. I’m not sure how that works, with molecules staying together and everything. I’ve tried, but I can’t quite get it.”

“Well, maybe—” Dick’s words fell silent as the door opened to reveal the Scarlet Speedster, three minutes after twelve.

“Sorry about the delay—I found not only our next target region, but Weather Wizard’s actual hideout,” he said. “It’s in Freedom, Nebraska. Right in the smack dab of where we thought our perp was heading. I thought you boys should know.”

“So that we can come?” Wally asked.

Flash opened his mouth, searching for the right words.

“Flash, sir,” Dick offered, the model of politeness, “I haven’t heard from Superman yet. Have you reached out to anyone else?”

Flash gave Dick a skeptical eye. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I tried Lantern, but he’s—”

“Off-world?”

“How did you know that?”

Dick shrugged. “Just a guess. But that means you’ll need us. We can’t just wait for him to strike again.”

“Right. We should set some rules before we go.” Flash cleared his throat. “You two are not to take unnecessary risks. Don’t make me make a call to Batman or your parents explaining any injuries or worse, you hear? You follow my lead—though Kid, if I’m gone, you answer to Robin—you do as I say. Stay together, and do not engage directly with storms or rogues without my say-so. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” sighed Wally.

Dick chewed over the rules. He’d never fought under the wing of any hero that wasn’t Batman—at least not without Batman lurking around the corner to be sure he acted appropriately—but the rules seemed reasonable enough. “Agreed. You’re in charge.”

 

* * *

“We need to split up!” Dick shouted, over the din of the storm. He had hoped Weather Wizard would wait until evening, stretching out the full forty-eight hours between strikes, but they had no such luck. He must have seen Flash arriving in Freedom, because the minute Dick was set on the ground, the wind started to stir.

Flash had jumped right into action, running circles around the tornado that was building in front of them, while Wally sped between nearby onlookers and neighbors, instructing them to find shelter. Dick, much to his embarrassment, had been useless for the first three minutes.

After shuttling around with Wally for an entire evening and morning, he thought he could handle travel at superspeed. Dick was almost getting used to the nauseating lurch of speed and the feeling of electricity crackling around him, like a static shock across your whole body. But Barry’s shuttle to Nebraska had left Dick—who was no stranger to pushing his body’s limits and moving at high speeds—puking on the asphalt. After he recovered, he appraised the situation. Two tornadoes in view, with more reported. An area with a population too dispersed to easily warn and evacuate—at least without Wally speeding between them all—and a circle of lightning storms surrounding the warehouse Weather Wizard had made his base.

“What do you propose?” Flash asked, using his arms to create wind-tunnels that countered the spin of the tornadoes.

“You stay here, neutralize these storms.” It was weird, giving an order to a Justice Leaguer, but there was no time for humility. Every second counted, and Flash and Kid Flash were both waiting to hear his plan. “KF and I will go in, shut this down from the inside. Kid, you’ve dealt with these bases before, right?”

“Right.”

“Flash, give us a window to get in?”

Flash gave a nod of approval and sped off, running circles around the nearest tornado.

“All right, KF. Let’s go.”

Wally scooped Dick up in his arms and they took off toward Weather Wizard’s temporary headquarters. He was almost grateful that Wally wasn’t quite as fast as Barry, as even at Wally’s speed, it took Dick a second to get his bearings once they were inside the makeshift headquarters.

It was a strange sort of place—an abandoned warehouse of some kind, but stuffed full with high-tech equipment. Several monitors showed scenes across the county, all whipping up into the manufactured storms. In the middle of it all was a column, like a kind of reactor, where a short metal wand sparking with electricity had been inserted. On the opposite side of the room was a taller rod that ran all the way up to the roof of the barn. It was wired to everything else—probably a lightning rod of some kind, transferring the electricity into this system.

Dick didn’t need to test it to tell that the whole thing was rigged. No villain would leave a setup like this unattended, ready to be crashed, their main power source just ripe for the plucking. It was a trap. The best he could do was not get them both caught in it.

He scanned the room. There had to be some kind of sign of what the trap was—a trick door, or trip wire, or vents to release poison gas, or…

The floor. It wasn’t the regular packed-earth floor of a barn at all, but something imported as well, a mesh grate.

Wally was fast enough to grab him and get them both out. He was sure of it.

But he also needed to face Weather Wizard, to get answers. And the best way to do that was to let himself get captured, let the villain think he had the upper hand. Wally couldn’t be here when that happened. He’d probably try to stop it, for one. Not to mention that Dick knew his limits, knew he could take whatever some two-bit super villain doled out, even to the point of being tortured. But if Wally were put in the middle? He couldn’t have that.

“KF,” he whispered, “you _sure_  you can’t vibrate through solids yet?”

“Pretty sure—why?”

“Just checking. Listen, I need you to go back and help Flash.”

“What? No. I’m not _leaving_ you!”

Dick pointed to the monitors, which showed four tornadoes already forming. “He’s upping his game, and we need to answer. I can work on shutting down this network, but you need to be out there.”

Wally nodded, but he only stepped away.

“I can handle myself,” Dick insisted. “I need you to trust me.”

Wally looked at the monitors, then the corridor, then back toward the door, and back at Dick. “I trust you,” he said.

“Then go. Flash needs you. The _town_ needs you. Every second I work on this, he’s destroying more homes, more crops, and endangering more people. I tried to fight a tornado before, and guess what? I can’t. But you _can_. So _go._ ”

Wally started to move, though his reluctance made him sluggish. As soon as Wally was out of the room, Dick set his eyes on a keyboard connected to the monitors. He could probably hack the system if he wanted, but he didn’t want that. He wanted Weather Wizard. He wanted answers. So he set his fingers to the keyboard and hit the space bar.

The minute he touched a key, all of the screens all flashed red, blaring the words: _BREACH. SUBMIT OVERRIDE CODE. 10._

_BREACH. SUBMIT OVERRIDE CODE. 9._

“Robin!” Wally’s voice, carrying into the building and down the hall. What was he _doing_?

Wally was coming _back_ for him. But he _couldn’t_ get caught.

“I know Flash said to follow your orders, but…”

Dick braced himself, made sure no skin was touching any surface of the machine, and pressed _enter._

Metal screeched, and bars lowered through the doorways, locking Dick into the control room. He waved a goodbye just before the floor sent a lightning shock through him and he collapsed.

“Robin!” Wally slammed the bars and then tried to pry them open, but they were immovable. “Robin! Wait, I can _try_ to—”

He put a hand to the metal and moved it faster, faster, until Dick could hardly see it.

Wally’s face behind the mask twisted in frustration. “I can’t do it! I can’t—”

“I’ll be fine!” Dick shouted, grimacing through the dull pain. Maybe getting electrocuted right after a concussion wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, but he was conscious and alive, thanks to the insulation in his boots, and Wally was free.

There was no good way to tell Wally what he was planning, not without possibly showing his hand to Weather Wizard. “Go save those people, like you saved me in Smallville! Go, _now_.”

Wally obeyed and zoomed out of sight, just before the far door slid open and the Weather Wizard stepped through. He pointed a wand at Dick, just like the one in the machine.

“Try anything funny,” he said, “and lightning _will_ strike twice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _WILL DICK ESCAPE THE ELECTRIFYING CLUTCHES OF THE WILD WEATHER WIZARD?_
> 
> _WHO IS PULLING THE STRINGS BEHIND THIS DASTARDLY SCHEME?_
> 
> _WILL BATMAN AND/OR SUPERMAN EVER SHOW UP TO SAVE THE DAY? AND JUST WHAT IS THE DEAL WITH THEIR RELATIONSHIP?_
> 
> _WHAT WILL BRUCE THINK OF DICK BEFRIENDING WALLY--AND REVEALING SO MUCH ABOUT HIMSELF?_
> 
>    
> STAY TUNED TO FIND OUT ALL THIS AND MORE! SAME BAT-TIME, SAME BAT-CHANNEL.


	13. Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You need not have read This Isn’t An Interview before this, but it does give a short sense of the Superbat dynamic at the beginning of Dick’s career (two year prior to this).

**THURSDAY, 8:15 PM MOSCOW SUMMER TIME**

“All the evildoers have been turned over to the proper authorities, Batman,” Clark said, closing the balcony door of Bruce’s penthouse hotel suite behind him. “ _Superman’s_ work is done. Now I just need to get some quotes so Perry’s happy, and then I can get back home.”

Really, the chief had been thrilled to send him. All he’d had to do was tell Perry that Bruce Wayne, off on a business trip, had spotted Superman and let Clark know. Perry had nearly packed Clark’s bags himself.

Batman was just standing there, arms folded, eyes on the ground.

“I want to… thank you,” he said.

Clark beamed. Batman’s scale of appreciation for assists usually ranged from _I told you to stay out of it_ to _I could’ve handled this myself_. An outright thanks was like an eleven out of ten.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Always happy to help.”

“It _was_ helpful. Having you out here. And back in Gotham.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. This was _too_ appreciative. Maybe something was wrong—one of the Bat’s self-loathing moods talking. “Anytime. I’m just sad we didn’t get to that manousheh place you were raving about while we were still in Dubai.”

Batman looked up now. “You can fly out there whenever you want.”

“That was your place—I can go straight to Lebanon if I just wanted the flatbread.” He’d imagined the whole experience: listening to Bruce over-explaining the menu and giving his recommendations, trying a new thing while Bruce waited with feigned patience for a sign of approval, and enjoying something together other than foiling some criminal scheme, an experience shared between the two of them…

Maybe Dick hadn’t been wholly off-base about how he thought about Bruce after all.

“We could grab something here,” Batman offered, suddenly sounding more like the CEO of Wayne Enterprises than the gruff vigilante. “Call it a working lunch.”

“It’s eight o’clock here.”

Batman shrugged, as if time were a meaningless construct. “A working _dinner_ , then.”

Clark looked down at the red toes of his boots. “I don’t know. I have leftovers in my fridge that I should eat, and—”

“I’ll pay, Clark.”

“Oh.” That changed things. He looked up with a sheepish smile. “Then, yeah. Do you think we can find noodles? I could go for noodles if manousheh’s out.”

Batman made a sound almost like a laugh. “I’m sure we can make it happen. Mind eating here in the suite? I’d rather avoid the press.”

“I don’t mind.” Clark scrunched his face. “But you _do_ remember—”

“You don’t count,” he said, unfastening his gauntlets and tossing them on the bed.

It was a compliment, as much as it didn’t sound like it. “Thanks, I guess.”

Batman stepped into the oversized bathroom area, leaned onto the counter, and pulled back his cowl. The mirror reflected back dark circles and crow’s feet around his pale eyes and black hair that was already starting to salt-and-pepper despite not yet hitting thirty. Somehow, the wear and tear made him look more dignified instead of like a sleep-deprived, depressed wreck of a man.

“I should get back in a few hours, though,” Clark added. “I told Barry I’d help out with that tornado attack.”

“Hn.” Batman—no, Bruce—pressed a pre-heated cloth against his face.

“You know it doesn’t have to be a dire situation for you to ask for help—I’m just around the corner in Metropolis, and it’s kind of nice, working with someone—”

“I already _have_ a partner.”

“You have an apprentice. You can’t _ground_ a partner.”

Bruce turned on the faucet. “Give him ten years, and he’ll be giving us orders.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Clark stepped closer to the bathroom, so Bruce could hear him over the water. “He’s really got the best from both of us—your combat and observational skills, my optimism and affability…”

Bruce paused his regimen, raised an eyebrow, and looked at Clark sidelong in the mirror. “He’s not _our_ son.”

“No, I know.” Clark leaned on the doorway and then straightened up again, unable to find a comfortable position. “Though… he apparently does, uh, think that there’s something going on between us.”

Bruce’s words might have gotten lost over the running water and Clark’s own heartbeat, pounding with embarrassment, had Clark not been cursed with superhearing, but they were clear: “And is that due to his observational skills or his optimism?”

Not even a hint of surprise. Interesting.

Clark cleared his throat and waited for Bruce to turn the faucet back off. “What do _you_ think?”

“Off the record?” Bruce turned around now. He’d exchanged his usual icy defenses for a warm offense, smiling that sharp too-rich-and-too-smart-for-his-own-good smile of his, the one that could cut right through bullshit despite spewing it proficiently. “ _I_ think you’ve been in love with me for two years.”

God, the _ego_. It was almost enough to make Clark toss out any brewing attraction he’d started to think he had. “Two _years_? Two _days_ , maybe.”

As soon as he’d said it, he regretted it.

Bruce’s eyes flashed, more with vindication than satisfaction. “I _knew_ it!”

It had been a trap. Of _course_ it’d been a trap.

“No, that’s not what I meant—”

“It’s not? What _did_ you mean, then?” Bruce stepped close. Too close. His voice was honey and his smile was a knife, and Clark was in way, way over his head.

He never should’ve repeated what Dick had said. He didn’t want to ruin things with Bruce, and pursuing a relationship with the most emotionally complex person he knew was bound to end in ruin. But ever since hearing Dick, of all people, bring up the idea, Clark had found himself mentally testing it out. He let his gaze linger longer on Bruce’s physique, found weak excuses to overcome Bruce’s aversion to physical contact, tried to imagine what dating Bruce Wayne would even look like what with different cities and secret identities. He hadn’t known if that was all genuine or persuading himself until now, and now he was terrified.

Clark laughed nervously. “I mean—I wasn’t saying I’m _in love_ with you.”

“What? You were just _joking_?” The ice wall around Bruce Wayne re-froze. He stepped back, scowling. “You think that’s _funny_?”

His words bristled with electricity, enough to surge and black out a city. Why had Clark _said_ that? Why had he said anything at all? Everything had been fine, and now Bruce was going to tell him to go.

“No, I don’t—I wasn’t trying to…” Clark tried to stick his hands in his pockets, but he had no pockets. Because he wasn’t some mild-mannered reporter, dodging scrutiny from Lois. He didn’t need to hide, or stammer, or fall over himself. He was _Superman_.

So he stood up straight and stepped toward Bruce, closing the gap between him. “It _is_ funny that everyone seemed to know,” he said with confidence, “before me.”

Bruce watched him skeptically, a wounded animal approaching an offering from a predator.

“Two years, though?” Clark cocked his head in curiosity. “That’s basically—”

“Since the interview, yes.” A small smile crept onto Bruce’s face. “Maybe I was projecting a little.”

“Projecting?”

Bruce just blinked, as if that was an answer.

Two _years_. Ever since the interview. That was nearly their entire friendship. That _was_ their entire friendship.

“I had no idea! Why didn’t you say something? _Do_ something?”

“I didn’t _not_ ,” said Bruce. “But I wasn’t going to compromise our work by inserting my feelings into it.”

“Right.”

What did that mean, _didn’t not_? Clark met Bruce’s eyes, and suddenly memories began piling in, with an entirely new filter. All those times Bruce went out of his way to consult Clark, invitations to stay at the Manor, invitations… like two days ago, when Bruce had said, _Why don’t you stay in my suite instead of returning to the States every night?_ And Clark had felt guilty abusing Bruce’s hospitality but had made a spot for himself in the living area of the suite. No wonder Bruce had laughed when he’d come into the suite and found Clark busily typing away on his laptop, in full pajamas and sprawled across the hotel sofa-bed that was, somehow, more comfortable than his actual bed back in Metropolis.

“See? You’ve shut down,” Bruce observed. “I was right. This never should’ve been discussed. Now working with you will be imposs—”

“No.” Clark touched a hand to Bruce’s armored chest, and his words fell silent, though his heartbeat pounded loudly enough to make up for it. “You’re wrong.”

“How?”

“I’m not shutting down. I was thinking—of how I wish I’d known sooner.” He slid his hand down to Bruce’s side now, sending an unmistakable signal this time. Bruce’s wall of ice completely melted this time, and he allowed himself a measure of vulnerability, softening halfway into Clark’s hand, letting his eyelids fall heavy.

It wasn’t clear if he pulled Bruce in or if Bruce had moved on his own, but an instant later their lips were touching, and Bruce’s grip tightened around him, and everything made sense, and nothing made sense. His head spun, but the feeling of Bruce’s stubble and the smell of spiced face-soap mixed with sweat grounded Clark to the reality of it. This was Bruce— _Bruce_ , his best friend—pressed against him, wanting more, and then—

A high-pitched screech rang through Clark’s skull. He recoiled, covering his ears from the horrible sound. Bruce’s alarm. _Totally inaudible_ , Bruce called it, except through the cowl’s mechanism. And to Clark’s ears. Ideal for a panic signal, except that it gave Clark a splitting headache at this proximity—and the cowl wasn’t on for Bruce to hear.

“ _Answer_ your _godda_ —”

A hand covered his mouth, and the screeching stopped as Bruce detached a phone device from his belt and held it to his ear.

“Dick?”

Dick’s voice did come through on the phone, but he wasn’t talking to Bruce.

“—doesn’t add up, Mister Wizard. I mean, if that _is_ your real name.”

“Of course it’s not my real name!” a man shouted over the line. “And it’s the _Weather_ Wizard, not _Mister_ Wizard!”

Bruce set the phone down and set it to speaker, and then tapped two other commands. Recording. Tracing the signal. Clark shoved Bruce’s hand away and knit his brow, listening both here and across the hemisphere for Dick’s voice.

“See, from what I’ve heard,” said Dick, jovial as ever, “this isn’t your M.O. You’re more of an extortion kind of guy—funny enough, that’s my least favorite kind of guy. Or is it my favorite? Favorite to throw in jail.”

“Shut _up_!” The _bam_ of a fist hitting bone punctuated Weather Wizard’s words.

“That wasn’t nice,” Dick said, laughing off the pain. “But that won’t shut me up, either. See, I don’t think you’re smart enough for market fraud. So who’s really running this show?”

Bruce mouthed the words _market fraud_?

Clark nodded. It made some sense. The tornadoes. “ _Winter wheat_ ,” he whispered. Clever, Dick.

“Why are you questioning me?” the Weather Wizard howled. “I have _you_ captive, not the other way around! Or have you forgotten?”

Static came over the line and Dick yelped in pain.

Clark tensed, but his reaction was nothing compared to Bruce, who gripped the counter behind him with white knuckles and ground his teeth.

 

***

 

Dick’s fists tightened as he grimaced, fighting through the pain as lightning struck the rod he was tied to and the electricity hit him again. His body ached, head to toe, but he’d had worse. Really, after going toe-to-toe with Two-Face and nearly bleeding out all over the floor, everyone else kind of looked like small fries. He shuddered at the memory— _it wasn’t me that killed you—it was the bat_ —and squeezed his eyes shut, steeling himself.

This wasn’t Gotham. This wasn’t Two-Face. This was just some wacky mad scientist with a fondness for dramatics, and Dick wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of responding to his twisted game. He’d been caught on purpose. He was in control, here.

And Bruce was listening. He’d managed that, at least—to access his emergency line. Maybe it was weak, to call for help. But Pa Kent had said to be his own kind of hero. And as far as Dick was concerned, Bruce, like Wally and Barry and Clark, was an asset, not a lifeline. He was just leveraging his assets. Not to mention that there was no question that Bruce would be recording this confession.

“You’re right, I _am_ the one that’s captive,” he said. He’d hoped that would have been enough, to let the guy start monologuing, but apparently he wasn’t going to make it easy.

Dick worked his fingers deftly through the bonds that held him and started talking again, as much to let Bruce know he was safe as to disarm the Weather Wizard. Second tactic: negotiation. “But the thing is, Wiz, despite your excellent fashion sense, your knotting skills could use some real work, and Flash and Kid Flash are around the corner neutralizing your storms, and I’ve already called in the rest of the Justice League. So it’s actually in _your_ best interest to give me some answers.”

Electricity surged again through Dick’s body, and a thunderclap boomed overhead.

“It is in your best interest to _shut up_!”

“I can tell them to go easy on you if you were put up to this,” Dick continued, as if nothing had happened, “but hey, if this was all your _brilliant_ , subtle plan… then congrats. It was good while it lasted. Though I mean, you still got figured out by a kid. Pretty embarrassing, if I do say so myself. If you only had a brain…”

Weather Wizard’s face contorted, torn between pride and fear. “I told you—I worked alone—I—”

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, huh?”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Oh, come on. You’re a wizard making tornadoes across Kansas and you don’t know _Wizard of Oz_? Who _are_ you?”

The ropes fell off his wrists. He was free. Dick slipped one arm around the rod to clasp both hands together and gripped it tight. He’d only have a second to use the lightning rod as leverage before Weather Wizard tried to shock him again, so he had to make it count. He swung out, kicking the Weather Wizard away from his wand and machines. As his feet returned to the rod, he pushed off it and flipped into his opponent.

Weather Wizard fought back, but without his wand, he wasn’t much of anything. Dick retreated into a ready position between his opponent and the wand and smiled. “You wanna get to your machine? Gotta get through me first.”

As expected, the Weather Wizard threw a punch, which Dick easily evaded, and then another—allowing Dick to put his new move into practice. He launched into a handstand on his opponent’s arm, swung his legs into a double-kick into the Wizard’s face, and then shot a grapple to wrap around the Wizard’s legs, all before landing back on the ground.

New move, executed perfectly. Before Weather Wizard could respond, Dick recalled the grapple, which jerked Weather Wizard to the ground and yanked him toward Dick.

Dick knelt down, but Weather Wizard pulled himself up and slammed his head hard into Dick’s face. That definitely wouldn’t be good for the concussion. He shook off the reverberating numbness from getting hit in the nose and ran his tongue along his teeth to be sure they were all in place, and then grabbed Weather Wizard’s right hand, flipped him forward, and yanked his other hand back.

“See, Wiz—I _tried_ to give you a chance, but that? Totally ruined it.”

 

***

 

Clark winced at the popping sound of a dislocated shoulder followed by the Weather Wizard’s scream.

Dick must have resorted to Batman’s measures. It was all _wrong_. He was just a little kid—wasn’t he? Clark started into motion and pointed to the window, but Bruce shook his head and held up a hand. _Wait._ Dick was in control now. Superman bursting in would ruin it.

“That’s _nothing_ compared to what your twisters can do. You hurt _good_ people, people trying to do honest work—not that you’d know what that is. You risked their lives and ruined their livelihoods, so you don’t get to complain now!”

“Stop!” he shouted. “I—”

“Someone’s pulling the strings,” Dick said, his voice lower now than his usual chatty tone, “and it isn’t you or Mirror Master or Captain Cold. So _tell_ me who.”

“I don’t know who it was! Some lady broke me out if I would help her, but she gave me a fake name—”

“Fake name’s better than no name. Batman’s gonna be here soon, and you _really_ don’t want him to hear you haven’t cooperated. You’ve heard of the Batman, right? Big guy. Flies through the night, lives off the screams of cowardly criminals like you. If you thought going up against Flash was bad, well _just you wait_ —”

“All right! She just said her name was Mercy, but—”

“ _Luthor_ ,” Clark said, just as Bruce growled, “ _Lex_.”

Bruce looked up. “Go get Robin. I’ll see what I can get on Lex.”

By the last sibilant sound, Clark had sped out the window and was flying toward the sound of Robin and the Weather Wizard.

As he got closer, the dark storm-cloud over fields of wheat was a dead giveaway.

He found Flash and Kid Flash first, battling tornadoes like whack-a-moles that wouldn’t stay down.

“Superman! Good timing!” Flash shouted.

Clark took a deep breath and blew, sending wind in the opposite direction of the swirling storm. “Where’s Robin?”

“In the station.”

“You let him go in there _alone_?”

Flash shook his head. “He went with Kid Flash but then sent him out—we’ve had our arms kind of full.”

There was no more time to waste. If Dick had been hurt…

Clark flew headlong into the station, coming to a stop and hovering. Dick was there, alive, standing, resting a foot on Weather Wizard’s shoulder. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose and then shook blood off onto the ground. With a shove of his foot, the Wizard Wizard toppled to the floor.

“Robin?”

Sometimes, it was hard to believe Dick was only thirteen.

“Superman!” He grinned and waved wildly before collapsing to his knees himself. “Sure am glad to see _you_!”

Other times, it was very easy.

“You hurt?”

“I’m okay. Wanna do the honors and shut down that reactor?” Robin pointed to a contraption where the Weather Wizard’s wand was lodged, sending crackling power into the station. “I’ve had enough shocks for one day.”

Clark knew the feeling.

“Aye-aye,” he said, tearing the wand away. The machine still hummed, working of the residual energy from the wand. Clark knit his fingers together into a double-fist, and then slammed down into the machine. It shattered into pieces and sent sparks flying.

The sparks got worse, crackling loudly. A quick view of the wiring made one thing clear: the thing was going to blow.

Clark scooped Robin in one arm and the Weather Wizard in the other and flew out of the station, winding down the corridor and far out of the building before the whole thing exploded into flames. He knelt and stretched out his cape, shielding both hero and villain from the blast as the tornadoes dissipated into still air.

 

***

 

The sound of the blast rang in Dick’s ears. Superman had saved him, but then he’d left as quickly as he’d come, off to question Luthor and check on Gotham and turn in his report and who knows whatever else fit into a regular evening for Clark.

The next thing he knew, Wally was hugging him, shouting, “You’re okay!”, and then shoving him in the shoulder, eyes flashing in anger. “What the _fresh hell_ was _that,_ though? You _knew_ I couldn’t help you!”

Dick shrugged. “These guys talk when they think they have the upper hand. I had to do it.”

“I could’ve stayed with you! Maybe I’m not on your level, but you don’t need to _protect_ me—”

“That’s not it! You… you’ve beaten him before. You’re too much of a threat. He wouldn’t’ve let his guard down, then.”

Wally tilted his head, surprised by that answer. “Oh. Well… just tell me next time. Maybe we need a code or something.”

“Next time?”

“I mean, why not?”

Dick grinned. “I’d like that. Now, want to help me wrap this guy up for delivery to Central City?”

“Good idea.”

Dick bound the Weather Wizard’s wrists with plastic ties from his belt while Wally tied his ankles.

“Back to Iron Heights for you, Wiz,” Dick said. “But hey—there’s no place like home.” He gave the rogue a patronizing pat on the shoulder.

“Nice work, Robin,” said Flash, holding out a hand.

Dick took it. It still seemed unreal that the Flash had helped _him_ , followed _his_ lead. “You too,” he said.

“Kid, you ready?”

“Yeah,” said Wally, but his attention lingered on Dick. “Hey, um. Sorry. About being a jerk before.”

“Me too. Friends?”

Wally grinned. “Brothers.”

He held out a hand to shake, just as Barry had. Dick clapped his in it and then pulled Wally into a brief hug.

“It’s too bad you live in the middle of nowhere,” he said. “It was fun with you here.”

“Hey, I can run to Gotham, easy. I feel the need—”

“The _need for speed_!” they said in unison, before breaking into laughter.

“ _Top Gun_?” Flash asked. “Really?”

“Robin’s a fan.”

“Am _not_.” Dick rolled his eyes behind his mask. “But yeah—maybe I can convince Batman to let me come out to Central City before school starts back. We can pick up your training again, or just hang out, whatever. Watch some more movies. Better ones.”

“That’d be awesome. _Really_ awesome.” Kid Flash looked up at his mentor, who was tapping his fingers against his leg. “Okay, clock’s ticking, I guess. See you soon?”

“Yeah,” confirmed Dick. “See you—” The two turned into blurs of red and yellow, crackling lightning following in their wake. “Soon.”

 

* * *

 

**THURSDAY NIGHT**

That night, after a final meal full of stories and good food, Dick sat on the rooftop watching the stars of the Kansas sky and knitting his wonky scarf. Crickets chirp-chirped off in the distance while the house hummed below. It felt like so long ago that he’d come here and been so spooked by the quiet of it, since he’d sat here in tears out of homesickness. Now, he felt sad to say goodbye. But Alfred would be back, and his week at the Kents was over.

A breeze blew his hair out of place, and then footsteps landed behind him.

“Hi, Uncle Clark.”

“Hey, kiddo. You did good.”

Dick shrugged. “Did you catch Lex?”

“Well, no.” Clark grimaced. “He hides his tracks well. Too well for the cops—but I let him know he hasn’t got away with it.”

“Hasn’t he?”

“The evidence has been passed along to the most dangerous person I know.”

“Bruce?”

Clark broke into a stupidly wide grin, which then faded away. “Lois, actually. If he pulls anything else, she’ll be able to trace it and drag his name with ease. And it might factor into a bigger story, thanks to Bruce’s work this week. Not just wheat, but oil, too, it seems.”

A smile tugged on Dick’s lips, though it was hard to celebrate with Luthor still free and unpunished.

“All that aside,” Clark continued, taking a seat next to him, “your cleverness and courage saved a lot of people today. You should be celebrating.”

“Someone I know once said it helps to feel a little small sometimes.”

Clark looked up at the stars. “Ah,” he said. “Sounds familiar.”

“Don’t you ever get lost in it all?”

“Not when I’m here,” Clark said. Like it was that simple. “Close your eyes.”

Dick was used to exercises like this with Bruce, honing his mindful awareness. He did as he was told and let his other senses take over: the rustling of the breeze through the corn, the hum of the appliances below, the roughness of the roof shingles under his hands, the smell of soil and hay, the lingering taste of baked apples on his lips. They were like anchors, reminders of the world beneath them.

He re-opened his eyes, and the scope of it hit him even harder. It was amazing, but his gaze drew back to Clark, who seemed totally at peace, grounded.

“You miss it here,” Dick observed. Clark’s eyes may have been on the night sky above, but it was no accident that he had come back, all the way back here, to watch them, time and again.

“How couldn’t I?”

“Pa thinks you don’t.”

Clark’s face hardened.

“I told him you do.”

“I _do_.”

“I know. But you left.”

Clark’s eyes broke away from the stars. “I had to. I’m a journalist, not a farmer. I know Pa’s disappointed about that, but—”

“He’s not disappointed.” Dick looked down at his toes, flexing and pointing as he reflected back on the week. “I think he just misses you. They both do.” Ma and Pa Kent were a little lonely, with their only child so far away, always busy, only able to visit for short bursts of time before being called away again.

“I know,” said Clark, sighing. “People around here… it isn’t like back East. Most people in Smallville stay in Smallville their whole lives. Maybe they go to college, but then they come back.”

“Bruce did that,” Dick noted.

Clark looked back up, but gave Dick a sidelong glance. “Bruce isn’t exactly _normal_. You think if his parents had survived, he’d be living at Wayne Manor with them?”

The ground seemed to shift under him as he turned the question over in his mind. One Wayne or another had always lived in the mansion, since it had been built. That was what Bruce had been after, before, trying to put Dick in his will. He was like Pa Kent, wanting someone to carry on a family legacy after him. And Dick’s own father had done the same, in a way, growing up in the circus and staying his whole life, too, like his father before him and his father before him. With all of that, Dick had never thought about moving away himself.

As angry as he’d been at Bruce for grounding him, as restless as he sometimes was in Gotham, he couldn’t imagine ever leaving. Even college seemed like a thing for other people. He always felt itchy in his palms when people asked what he wanted to do when he grew up. He already had a job. He was Robin. He was Batman’s _partner_.

But his email to Bruce had promised something more. Being a leader. Being in the League. Forging a new generation, a new kind of superhero. Bruce said he was impressed. Dick only hoped he could live up to what he’d promised. The future stretched out before him, like so many fields with the seeds only sown.

It was invigorating.

It was terrifying.

“Hey, you okay?” Clark’s voice was soft now, concerned.

Dick nodded, realizing that his body had tensed and his heart was racing. He took a deep breath and nodded again. “I’m okay,” he said. “I just… I know Alfred is picking me up tomorrow, but I miss home too.”

“I know, Dickie.” Clark reached an arm around Dick’s shoulder, and Dick leaned in against the solid mass of Clark’s chest. “But it’s not so bad here, is it?”

“No,” Dick whispered. He looked back out at the stars, which had sent Clark flying to Earth once, long ago. The same stars shone down on Gotham, on Haly’s, on Central City. “It’s not bad at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _did_ promise we'd get Superbat, didn't I?
> 
> One more chapter left -- will go up tomorrow!


	14. The Open Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick and Bruce reconcile, lessons learned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been putting together a playlist for Bruce, but it's not quite polished yet. If you want a sense of what he's listening to in this chapter, I linked one song--"Never Let Me Down" (Depeche Mode), which is especially apropos. You can also listen to "Enjoy the Silence" (also Depeche Mode), "Shadowplay" (Joy Division), "True Faith" (New Order), "Bela Lugosi's Dead" (Bauhaus), "Nocturnal Me" (Echo and the Bunnymen), "Pictures of You" (The Cure), "Hurt" (Johnny Cash covering Nine Inch Nails), "and "Terrible Lie" (Nine Inch Nails).

 

 **FRIDAY MORNING**  

When Dick woke up on his last day, he was suddenly reluctant to leave. Alfred was supposed to fly in around four, which gave Dick almost a full day, and he made the most of it, helping Pa Kent in every way he could. But as they hauled hay into the cattle manger, Dick was startled from his work by the sound of a car engine and wheels on gravel. And instead of the twang of country music that everyone around Smallville played on their automobile radios, [an echoing minor-key synth and bass pulsed in an 80s dark new wave style](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=snILjFUkk_A). Dick’s heart raced even before he spun toward the sound and found a polished classic convertible that he’d never seen before, with a tall dark-haired man behind its wheel.

Dick’s pitchfork dropped onto the ground and his feet flew faster than he realized they could. Bruce had hardly stepped out of the car when Dick threw himself into his arms. He smelled like citrus and spice and wool. Like home.

“ _BRUCE!_ ” The sheer surprise of it sent joy pounding from his heart and set aside all the tension between them. “You’re here! _You_ came _here_.”

“I’m here.”

Dick finally let go, but only so that Pa Kent could shake Bruce’s hand.

“That a ’66 Corvette?” asked Pa.

Bruce nodded.

“Good condition.”

“Found a seller about an hour outside of Central. I thought an American road trip deserved an American road trip car.”

Dick blinked in confusion. “Wait, this is yours? You—are we _driving_ back?”

“Unless you’d _rather_ fly? I thought a few days on the open road would be more welcome than bedrest for your concussion.”

“Yes! Seriously? Don’t you have to get back right away, though? Gotham needs you.”

Bruce’s face twitched. “Gotham can wait.”

Dick stepped back in exaggerated shock. “Who are you, _imposter_?”

“Hey, now. I was supposed to be out of the country an extra week. I’m spending those days off driving instead. Besides, Gotham’s in good hands for a few more days.”

“Clark? He okayed this?”

Pa Kent laughed. “Course he did. Come on, Dickie, let’s get your things from upstairs.”

 

***

 

Bruce and Pa Kent took care of his luggage while Dick showered—Bruce was pretty clear that Dick wasn’t going to get his manure-caked fingers anywhere near the newly purchased car—and Ma Kent put together snacks for the road.

Soon, Dick was standing in the doorway, hanging back.

Ma Kent sensed his hesitation and swept down, folding him in a hug. “You come back anytime now.”

“We’ll expect you next harvest,” Pa Kent said. “And Clark said something about Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah, he…” Bruce slid his hands into his pockets, and a faint smile danced over his lips. “He did mention that. Dick, how’s that sound? Thanksgiving out here this year?”

“That sounds a- _maz-_ ing!” Dick thought he might explode from excitement at the idea. His first Thanksgiving with Bruce had been a quiet holiday, just him and Alfred. Last year, they’d invited a bunch of people over, so many that it had become more of a Gotham _event_ than a family holiday. Thanksgiving with the Kents would be like an actual family holiday. “Can we _really_?”

“Only if you kill the turkey yourself,” Pa Kent said.

“S-seriously?” Dick was less keen on that. But Pa Kent laughed and shook his head, and Bruce joined in the laughter too, now.

“Be good, son,” said Pa Kent, squeezing his shoulder. “You keep being the best _you_ you can be, y’hear?”

Dick smiled and wrapped his arms around the tall farmer’s middle. “Thanks, Pa.”

“Thank you both, again,” Bruce said. “This is… a very special place. I’m grateful for you sharing it with Dick. And with me.”

“Don’t be silly, Bruce,” said Ma Kent, cupping his cheek in her hand as if he were no older than Dick. “Your family is ours.”

Bruce blinked once, hard, and nodded. “Come on, Dick,” he said, his voice low to breaking. “We should hit the road.”

“Right. Bye, Ma! Bye, Pa!”

Ma and Pa Kent waved, and Dick turned his attention back to Bruce.

“We’re _really_ gonna come back for Thanksgiving?” Dick asked, nearly skipping along the sidewalk down to the car. “Like, we’ll stay here and everything? You and me and Clark? And Alfred?”

“Something like that.” A smile tugged again at the corner of Bruce’s mouth. “Actually, Clark and I were talking… how’d you like if we got together more often, the three of us?”

“Like team-ups?”

“No, like normal civilian things, as ourselves. Catch a Knights game, or go to the lake. That sort of thing.”

“Um, I only _beg_ you to invite Clark to things like that basically _every week_ and _you_ always say no, so I don’t know why you’re asking.” Unless… Dick smiled slyly. Maybe he hadn’t been _so_ off-base about Bruce and Clark after all. “Unless this is all a roundabout way of saying that you two are dating for real, and not just in the gossip columns?”

Bruce laughed and opened the classic Chevy’s driver-side door. “I’m _not_ discussing my love life with you.”

“So that’s a _yes_?” Dick ducking under Bruce’s arm to climb in first. “Really?”

“That’s a _no comment_.”

“Which means yes.” Dick slid into the passenger’s seat and ran his hands on the piping hot dashboard. “I want _all_ the deets. But like, the cute ones. Not the gross ones. _Please_ not the gross ones.”

“The Kents walked me through the events of the week while you were upstairs,” said Bruce, closing his own door behind him and changing the subject to the only thing that would make Dick drop his questioning.

It worked. “Oh,” he said. He was all out of words to justify his actions. If Bruce didn’t like them, then so be it.

“I’m… very proud of you, Dick.”

Dick’s eyes went wide, but he tried to hide his surprise. Why _would’t_ Bruce be proud? “Really?”

Bruce nodded, and Dick beamed, smiling ear to ear.

And then he remembered what he’d told Wally, and his pride dissolved. He might as well tell Bruce now, while he could still be dropped at the Kents’ for another week of grounding. “Bruce… I have to tell you something. Something they don’t know I did.”

Bruce’s eyebrows deepened into a concerned V.

“But I _need_ you to try to trust me and not get angry. Can you do that?”

“I do trust you.”

“Well. I _had_ a reason, but I may… have told Kid Flash—Wally—who I am…?”

Every muscle in Bruce’s body tightened, but he restrained himself from lashing out over it and instead just gripped the steering wheel tightly. Impressive, really. “I _trust_ …” he said, forcing calm words through gritted teeth, “that you had a _good_ reason? A _very_ good reason?”

Dick forced himself to stay confident. Bruce would only trust him if he trusted himself first.

“He’s—he won’t want me saying this, but his family is kind of messed up, Bruce. Like, _he’ll-never-go-to-CPS-over-it-but-he-probably-should_ kind of messed up. So I just… wanted him to have a safe place to go,” Dick continued, “in case Iris and Barry aren’t around.”

Bruce was quiet, but his face flickered with the same protective anger that Dick had felt. After a second, he said, “You thought it was what I would’ve done.”

“I guess.” Dick shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s what _I_ needed to do.”

Bruce nodded, still clenching the steering wheel.

“I won’t tell anyone else, I _swear_ ,” Dick said, scrambling to reassure Bruce. “I never have before, and I never will again, not unless you say it’s okay. He’ll be my Clark.”

“Your Clark?” Bruce side-eyed Dick, asking five unspoken questions along with the one said aloud.

“Well not… I mean… if you get one superhero that you can share everything with, it’s probably only fair that I do too.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed. “In that case, isn’t _Clark_ your Clark?”

Dick just blinked at Bruce, letting the silence be his answer.

“Right,” Bruce accepted, easing his grip. “That’s… fair. He knows to keep it absolutely secret?”

“He knows. I made him promise. Not even Barry. You can trust him. He’s known Barry’s secret and hasn’t even told Iris.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Dick swallowed. It was going _too_ well. “Really?”

“Really. I wish you would’ve asked first, but what’s done is done.” Bruce turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the long driveway. As they pulled into the road, he turned down the music and said, “Listen, Dick, I’ve been thinking a lot about it recently… And. Well. You were right.”

Dick did a double-take. “I _was_?” He wasn’t sure what he had been right about, but he’d take it: Bruce rarely admitted to being wrong. Not like this. Not in such a flat-out way.

“We have each other—and I want to be clear, you and I… that comes first,” Bruce prefaced, “but…”

“But?”

“But I do also have the League. I have Diana. And you’re right: I have _Clark_. You deserve peers of your own.”

Dick blinked, processing. “Peers,” he repeated.

“Peers that you can… be yourself with.”

“Peers like Wally.”

Bruce nodded. “Though I’d prefer that our identities—

“Stay secret. I know.”

“We can address that on a case-by-case basis. Talk to me first next time. I’m not trying to be unreasonable, but we’re not like everyone else.”

“I know, Bruce. I get that. I do.” The fact that he’d even entertain a case-by-case basis and there could be a _next time_ was big enough. Dick wouldn’t have believed it three weeks earlier. “So this means I can see Kid Flash again?”

Bruce nodded, and Dick threw himself forward, grabbing his guardian in a hug. “ _Thank_ you.”

Bruce grunted and straightened his back, focusing on driving. “There’s a file I want to show you.”

“A file?”

He dropped a device into Dick’s hand—a prototype holographic computer Dick had seen once at WayneTech. Dick slid his finger along its base and a screen appeared.

“You know about the Titans database.”

“Yeah.” Titans, named for the imposing, somewhat threatening proto-gods of Greek mythology. Diana had come up with the code name, but it was Bruce’s project: a database of every trace of information they could find on metahumans and vigilantes working across the country and beyond.

“There’s an entry that I think will interest you,” Bruce said. “Vigilante, non-meta. Like us.”

“Like us?”

Bruce reached over, clicked through three different menus, and then an entry from an encoded list. A file popped open, with a spread of four images. The first was a headshot, like a school picture, of a red-headed boy with an arrogant grin. The other three were grainier, clearly taken in secret, but showing an archer or two against an urban backdrop. The dossier was laid out below:

_HARPER, ROY. A/K/A SPEEDY. 15. STAR CITY._

Dick re-read the line three times, making sure he hadn’t misread. He’d heard of Speedy before, of course, but he’d never given him much thought, and he’d never heard his real name. Roy Harper. He stared at the line, mouth agape, and then looked back at the image. Red hair, but not like Wally’s—his was darker, a little overgrown. His whole demeanor was different, too: less boy-next-door, more devil-may-care. _Dashing_ , even.

“He’s—”

“Green Arrow’s protege, yes.”

Dick scrolled down, reading the basic details. _Mother, unknown. Father, Roy Harper, Sr, firefighter, deceased. Adoptive father, Raymond Brave Bow Begay, Navajo (Diné) Nation, also deceased. Now in custody of Oliver Queen._

“Wow, Mister Queen _really_ wants to be you, huh?”

A wry smile stretched across Bruce’s face. “Computer, next entry.”

A girl’s face showed up this time, bright and hopeful. She looked exactly like Diana, if Diana were Dick’s age.

_DONNA. A/K/A DONNA TROY A/K/A WONDER-GIRL. AGE UNKNOWN. THEMYSCIRA._

“Bruce?”

“Computer,” Bruce ordered. “Next entry.”

Another boy, with dark curly hair and suntanned skin.

_GARTH. A/K/A AQUALAD. 14. POSEIDONIS._

Dick shook his head. “ _Bruce_. What’s going on?”

Bruce glanced over. “Just sharing information.”

“ _Just sharing_.”

“As I said before: I trust that you will be responsible enough to make the right call as to how to handle the information at your disposal.”

Dick blinked in disbelief. There were so many of them. It wasn’t like he could hop over to Themyscira or swim down to Atlantis. But Star City…

“I was thinking,” Bruce said, as if reading his mind, “that Queen Consolidated has some tech that I’d like to talk to Ollie about. If you’d like, we can head for the West Coast instead—how’d you like meet this Harper kid?”

Dick grinned wide, ready to shout _YES!_ , but he bit his grin back. There was no rush. And a small part of him felt like it’d be betraying Wally somehow, to go and try to make another friend _so_ quickly.

“That sounds really great, Bruce. Like, you don’t even know _how_ great. But… maybe we can go in a bit?”

“In a bit?”

“Yeah. We can fly out there, right? In a month or something.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “I thought you wanted friends.”

“I _do_. And I’m really excited to meet all these people my age, especially Speedy. Really, _really_ excited.” He clicked off the computer display and leaned into Bruce’s arm. “But you’re my friend, too.”

Bruce shifted gears and wrapped his arm around Dick. “Okay, then, chum, where to? Open road is all yours.”

“Well, I did have one idea…”

Bruce looked over skeptically.

“I don’t know… Some people say it’s pretty dingy, dangerous, all that, but I hear it has some charm.” Dick looked up with a mischievous smile. “You ever heard of this place called Gotham City?”

“You know,” said Bruce, “I think I _may_ have been there before.”

The Corvette screeched onto the eastbound highway and roared ahead past the fields of wheat and corn, back towards Gotham. Back towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks! I toyed with an epilogue but it wasn't working, but you can imagine that six months after this, [Dick gets a letter from the Hatton Corners Teen Club](https://www.comixology.com/The-Brave-and-the-Bold-1955-1983-54/digital-comic/15195)...
> 
> I have a bunch of embryonic WIPs set in this continuity and just need to figure out what comes first. I'm thinking of a side-series that spins off of this fic, with one-offs of Clark & Bruce & Dick up to World's-Finest-cover-esque leisure scenarios, set while Bruce and Clark are dating. Additionally, I'm toying with a prequel about "the interview" when Bruce and Clark become friends, I have a mostly-written Dick and Talia story, and I do have a third part of this Dick series that is sort of a Nightwing Year One redo (with Kory and bb Jay!). I don't have anything in the works with Dick and Wally, but I could be talked into it -- he ended up being _so_ much fun to write, and I love them together now.
> 
> If you have opinions or ideas, comment and let me know, or find me on tumblr (novangla).


End file.
